


The War of the Living

by Lunas_Secret_Lover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon Targaryen - Freeform, And he's not a happy camper, Azor Ahai, Because what the fuck happened to the writing on this show?, Brienne is the Best, But Not Much, Cannon-Typical Violence, Evil Euron, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fix this mess of a storyline, Fix-It, For reals evil, Game of Thrones ending, Gen, I dOnT CaRe AbOuT The PeOpLe oF KiNgS lAnDing, I just really want a satisfying ending guys, It's GOT what did you expect?, Jaime and Brienne - Freeform, Jaime gave up his honor and reputation for those people, Jaime/Brienne Appreciation Week, Like, Loras survived the Sept, Lots of character death, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Arya Stark, POV Brienne of Tarth, POV Daenerys, POV Euron, POV Jon, POV Tyrion, POV Varys, Season 08 fix, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, What the actual fuck, With stuff from the books I liked, bitch, explicit violence, fixit, got ending, not this knock-off Jack Sparrow shit, show verse, sparrows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-03-05 23:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunas_Secret_Lover/pseuds/Lunas_Secret_Lover
Summary: The White Walkers are dead.  The Night King has fallen.  But Winter is far from over.  The remains of the army of Winterfell prepare to face the south, and a new force rises from the sea.  Jon Snow is forced to face his destiny and his queen, as Queen Cersei struggles to hold the remnants of her world together.  Daenerys Targaryen prepares to take back her kingdom and save her people from the dangerous tyrant leading them, with new allies and enemies all around her. While the living squabble among themselves, the dead creep close once more.  Brienne and Jaime find hope with each other as the world descends into darkness all around them.When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die.  When you play against death, you simply die.  And those who dare try to change that face far worse fates.  Still there are those that dream of spring.  When the winter ends, will there be anything left?Divergent halfway through 0804 because the writing got baaaad.  Fixit fic, try to finish up the story fic.





	1. Brienne

He stared at her with that half-smile of his, daring her to make the next move.  She didn't know how.  How could she?  Her whole life she had fought, she had hidden behind a sword and hoped no one would dare glance behind it.  She had never wanted anyone to.  Not since that night when they all danced with her, mocking her when they thought she couldn't see.  And now-now Jaime stood in front of her, tarnished gold, a lion old enough to have gray in his mane.  And he gave her that look like he wanted her.  How could she be sure he wasn't mocking her too?  She glanced away and took a few steps back.

"You keep it warm enough in here," he said.  He threw his coat off, glaring at her like it was her fault he'd burst into her room and forced Dornish wine down her throat.  Brienne stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the punchline to fall.  She was the punchline.  She was always the punchline.  But not with him.  Not anymore.  

"It's the first thing I learned when I came to the north.  Keep the fire going.  Put more wood on," she said, her eyes never leaving him.  Still she waited for him to tell her this had all been a joke.  But no.  He had knighted her.  Truly knighted her.  Her heart swelled at the memory of it.  Jaime.  He had always been the only one to see her for what she was.  To see straight down to her soul even when it terrified her.  Even when she wanted to beg him to turn away, to let her be that awkward "big woman."  

"That's very diligent.  Very responsible."

"Piss off."

"You know the first thing I learned in the north?  I hate the fucking north."  He stepped closer to her again until they were a nose away.  Brienne glanced down, wanting to retreat, wishing she had a sword to hide behind now.  

"It grows on you," she said, daring to meet his eyes.

"I don't want things growing on me.  How about Tormund Giantsbane?  Has he grown on you?"  Brienne stared at him, not quite sure what to say.  "He was very sad when you left."  She realized something as he took another gulp of Dornish wine.  He stared at her like she was someone else.  Like she was someone worth coveting.

"You sound quite jealous," she said in barely more than a whisper.

"I do, don't I?" he said, boldly meeting her eyes.  Gods, he was bolder than any man she'd ever met.  But most men wanted her for her novelty.  Most men wanted her because she was large and imposing and manly.  With Jaime- well, with Jaime it didn't feel like that.  She gulped.  Then he glanced away, looking awkward as she felt.  "It's bloody hot in here."  He fumbled with his shirt, and she stared, her words caught in her throat.  Was he looking for an excuse to take his clothes off?  

"Oh, move aside," she said, pushing past her misgivings at last.  She untied the threads holding the top of his shirt together.  It was well-worn, a peasant's shirt, really.  It didn't belong on a Lannister.  But Jaime.  Ser Jaime.  He was more than just a Lannister.  It fit on him.  Still, when his hand landed just below her throat on the leather thread on her own tunic, she stiffened.  "What are you doing?"  

"I'm taking your shirt off," he said.  His voice was as serious as the grave.  

Brienne stared at him, frozen in place.  His eyes- those huge impenetrable eyes she had once hated, then grown to respect.  And maybe in her darkest dreams grown to love.  Even if she would never admit it to herself.  Jaime's eyes stared into hers with a burning fire she hadn't seen in them since he had lost his hand.  That was enough to push her over the edge.  She let go of him, both of her hands tugging at her own shirt, pulling at the ties until they were all unfastened.  Jaime stood still as her hands returned to the edges of his shirt, finishing with the fastenings and pulling the loose fabric over his head.  He raised his arms to help her, his eyes never leaving hers.  

He looked afraid.  That wasn't a look she was used to seeing on the young lion.  Well.  The older lion now.  His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he clamped them shut.  Brienne's eyes lingered on the scars on his shoulders, across his chest.  This was the body of a soldier, of a man that wasn't afraid of the sharp end of a sword.  She felt her respect deepen another notch or two.  

Brienne took a deep breath, focusing on the fact that he too was nervous.  Then she tugged at her shirt, letting it open and slip from her broad shoulders.  She felt keenly aware of the scars covering her own body.  Not only the scars but the green and purple bruises left from the army of the dead.  The army she shouldn't have escaped.  They matched the two of them.  Mirror images of visible pain and tempered strength.  She didn't look away from him.  His eyes stayed focused on her, darting down from her face to her breasts, then back to her eyes, an edge of guilt to his smile.

"I've never slept with a knight before," he said solemnly.  His eyes searched hers, darting between them with wonder and trepidation.  "I've never slept with anyone besides Cersei before."

"I've never slept with anyone before," she finally admitted.  She wouldn't say that to anyone else.  Not to Tyrion with his curious angry eyes.  Not even to Lady Sansa, who she'd shared so much with.  Only to him.  Only to Jaime.  The only one who had ever seen her.  His eyes bored into hers, and again she felt a strong urge to look away, to break the contact before he made a joke of her.  

"Then you have to drink," he said, barely blinking now.  "Those are the rules."  A beat.

"I told you-"  And then it didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  Because Jaime's lips were pressed against hers, warm and dry, a desperate kiss against the dark they both knew was coming.  His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her face closer to his.  The warmth of the fire crackled on and on, pushing against their faces with an insistent blaze, but Brienne barely even felt it.  All she felt was Jaime.  She broke the kiss first, staring at him in disbelief.

"You don't want this," she gasped finally.  "You want Cersei.  This is just to distract you from-"

"Cersei is an evil spiteful cunt," he said, eyes darkening. "You.  Ser Brienne.  You're the only honorable knight I've ever- I've ever fought beside."  _He changed that sentence half-way through,_ she thought.  But whatever it was he almost said, whatever it was his lips clamped down on- she wasn't sure if she wanted to hear.  When he pulled her close again, she could do nothing but kiss him back, alarmed and aroused at once that her lips knew exactly what to do.  He broke away this time, tugging at her tight trousers.

"Oh for the gods-" she muttered, pulling them off with ease.  Her fingers tucked under his waistband and tugged at his own pants until they loosened enough to slide past his knees, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap.  She let herself feel a hint of amusement as she glanced at him.  "You know, I _know_ you're not as helpless as you seem.  You just want me to do all the work."  He grinned back at her, and finally, things felt back to normal.  Their normal banter, normal loose-spirited equality.  

"It's not polite to call out a fellow knight like that," he said, his smile staying on his face.  "You're supposed to do the chivalrous thing and just go along with it."

"Oh really?  And when was the last time I did anything chivalrous in regards to you?"  His hand slipped lower, grazing her back, then moving toward her breasts.  She took in a sharp breath.

"There's always a first time, Ser Brienne.  Now that you're a knight, you have to learn to be chivalrous."

"Teach me," she said, her voice breathless and low.  

He took her into his arms and taught her.  Her maidenhood slipped away an inch at a time, replaced by something new, something she didn't entirely understand.  It was awkward and painful and new.  It was exciting and strange, and after the blood passed, it was something more than that.  The pain grew to pleasure, and as she called out Jaime's name, she felt like she was calling the names of the Seven.  The world faded as she fell asleep, her bed warm and crowded.

 

Brienne woke with an aching head and a sore body.  She didn't feel any different, though.  After being deflowered, she had always thought she'd feel different.  Mostly she just felt hungry.  Jaime still lay beside her, mouth open and head back.  They had slept beside each other so many times before that that part hadn't felt strange.  At least not as strange as the rest of it.  For a moment she wondered if they would sleep beside each other again.  She shook the thought off, smiling a little.  She'd gotten boffed once and her she was mooning like a little girl.  It didn't matter.  What mattered was getting up and eating.  Because once she'd done that, she would be ready to deal with the mess Lady Sansa was in.  Or readier.  She left him sleeping there, remembering to throw another log on the fire before she walked down to the kitchens.

She put on her full armor before going to Lady Sansa's rooms.  She wasn't entirely sure why.  The war was over, after all, and there shouldn't be anything to be afraid of inside of Winterfell.  Still, it seemed important.  Maybe just for show.  Sansa sat staring out her window, a lady in waiting braiding her hair into its typical neat coil.  She smiled as she caught sight of Brienne.

"Ser Brienne."  Brienne's lips twitched at the title and her chest felt warm despite the cold.

"To you, Lady Sansa, only Brienne.  You've known me too long for titles."

"Then to you, I should only be Sansa," Sansa said, giving Brienne a quizzical smile.  "But somehow I know you'll never call me that."  Brienne smiled back.  "I know it's far beneath the duties of a knight, but my people are still cleaning the bodies of wights from the streets.  I'm going to help where I can.  Will you come with me?"

"You want to clean the streets?" Brienne asked, raising an eyebrow.  Sansa shook her head.

"I want to be with my people.  I want to know what they need, what their grievances are.  If I only see them when they petition me, I won't know anything."

"You'll need a guard," Brienne said, nodding.  "At least a few good men-"

"I just want you," Sansa said simply.  Brienne stared at her.

"My lady, what if someone tries-"

"If I can't walk among my own people without fearing for my life, they're not my people.   _Ser_ Brienne, I have known many knights.  You are the best of them.  You'll keep me safe."  Brienne nodded slowly as Sansa stood, brushing her dress down.  They stared at each other for a long moment.  "I wasn't sure we would survive the wights."

"Neither was I," Brienne admitted.

"It would be easier if we hadn't," Sansa said, a smile dancing on her lips.  "Now we have to do the hard part while Jon and his dragons take the rest of the kingdom."

"I've rebuilt before.  And so have you.  This time it's just a city.  That's a lot easier than a life."  Sansa nodded, her face turning back to the window.

"I want you to be head of the guard at Winterfell."  Brienne recoiled.

" _What_?"

"You're the only one I trust with my life that isn't my family.  And gods, no one deserves it more than you.  When this is all over- whatever happens in the south- I'll need people I can trust around me to defend the north.  I want you.  Will you stay?"

"I-"  She didn't have to think about it.  Not really.  "Yes.  I would be honored."

"Good.  Then come with me.  We have our work cut out for us."

They spent the day among the small folk, burying bodies and listening to stories of tragedy.  Everyone seemed to have one nowadays, Brienne thought.  She wondered if the tragedy would go away once one person was on the throne and some sort of stability returned.  Things had been simpler when Robert Baratheon ruled, hadn't they?  Before all the small folk got dragged into wars they didn't care about.  Gods, it had all gone on so long she wasn't sure she would know what to do with peace if it ever came.  Lady Sansa would.  

Watching her with her people, Brienne could see that.  She had an easy grace, a way about her. All of her soft words came out the right way, earning her the clear respect of her people.  She knelt beside a little girl and asked the name of her doll, ignoring the fact that the girl only had one leg, her stump wrapped with dirty bandages.  She talked to the old with deferential respect, asking their advice for how to ration the food supply for the winter.  When she walked, her back was straight and her head high like she knew exactly what her place in this world was, but when she spoke it was always with a soft grace.  A strand of red hair fell from her tight braid, and for just a moment, she looked exactly like her mother.

By the time they returned to the castle, Brienne was in awe.  All her life all she'd wanted was to fight for an honorable lord, one who would put his people above all else.  All her life she had clung to the wrong goal.  Now she knew what she really wanted.  She wanted to defend someone who knew their people.  Someone smart enough to outwit even the best men who tried to subvert them.  Someone who knew what she and her people deserved and who would be willing to die for it.  Brienne knew with sudden certainty that no matter what happened next, she would spend the rest of her life fighting for Sansa Stark.


	2. Tyrion

There were times when Tyrion envied the dead.  At least they were done with all this foolishness.  _They_ didn't have to advise a queen who would do what she wanted no matter what he said.  They didn't have brothers badgering at them, or if they did, they didn't have to answer.  At least right now, Jaime only wanted relationship advice.  Tyrion took another long sip of wine and leaned back in his chair.

"So you slept with Tormund's big woman, then, did you?" he asked, grinning at his brother.  Jaime's slow smile appeared, his cheeks growing pink.

"She's not Tormund's."

"Is she yours, then?"

"Brienne isn't anybody's.  Maybe least of all mine."  Jaime took his cup and drained it, grinning down into its emptiness like a madman.  _All men in love are madmen_ , Tyrion thought.  

"I have to say I'm surprised.  I would have thought Cersei ruined women as a group for you.  Half-supposed you'd go chasing after Pod or one of Sansa's better-looking Northmen."

"Very funny, little brother.  You know, Cersei ruined women like her for me.  Queens.  I'd make an awful king."

"Like anyone would give you the chance."  Jaime raised his glass to that, going to take a sip before apparently realizing it was empty.  He stared at the cup in evident dismay.  Tyrion felt a rush of sudden affection.  "I'm happy for you.  No, really, I am.  I think you'd only ever be happy with another knight.  You've got that undying sense of honor."

"Honor?" Jaime snorted, refilling his glass from the pitcher of wine between them.  "I pushed a seven-year-old out a window, don't you remember?"

"Course I remember.  You ruined that poor bastard's life."  They drifted into silence, each staring at the lines in the table.  Tyrion cleared his throat.  "But since then you've saved his sisters more than once.  You've fought for the North when your queen would have had you killed for it-"

"I didn't fight for the north.  I fought for the living."

"All the same.  You fought for the living against Cersei's wishes.  You knew what that would mean, yet you did it anyway."  Tyrion raised an eyebrow, finishing his cup with a flourish before setting it back down and filling it to the brim with bright red wine.  "You, Ser Jaime, are a man of honor."

"Don't spread that.  I'll lose whatever little reputation I have left."

"Wouldn't dream of it.  I have enough people after my head."  Jaime glanced away.  Tyrion followed his gaze to the empty hallway.  "So?  Are you going to bed her again?"

"Tyrion-"

"Don't 'Tyrion' me.  We're both thinking it.  Are you?"  Jaime sighed, his eyes soft and that same smile on his face he used to wear when Cersei was mentioned.  Tyrion smiled in response.  "You are, then.  Gods, who would have guessed?  My brother in love with the Maid of Tarth."

"I didn't say in love."

"You don't have to.  You reek of it.  It's like Cersei but worse."  Jaime's face grew serious and his hands clasped together nervously.

"Don't say anything to Brienne.  She's been acting off since we- well, you know."

"Since when have you been shy about sex?  Just say since you fucked her."

"Right," Jaime said, still not saying the words, Tyrion noted with amusement.

"Seven Hells, Jaime, you really care for this girl."

"She's everything I ever wanted to be.  You know, when I was a child yet and had dreams of being a knight.  She's that knight."

"Well take care not to break her, then.  Daenerys will need all the knights she can get when she goes after Cersei."

"Brienne isn't going," Jaime said, avoiding Tyrion's eyes as he took another drink.  Tyrion raised a thin eyebrow.  "I'm not going either."

"What?  The only way Cersei will stop is if you-"

"Cersei won't stop for anyone.  Or anything.  Not me or the late Lancel or Osmond Kettleblack- not even for Moonboy."  Jaime's voice stung with bitterness.  "And you're not stupid enough to think she will, Tyrion.  She'll let the whole of King's Landing burn to the ground before she surrenders.  It's who she is.  Let her sow her own destruction.  She'll help your Dragon Queen to the iron throne simply by being a fool."

"She's carrying your child."

"She _says_ she's carrying my child.  There's a difference."  Tyrion considered that for a moment.

"So you're staying, then?  Staying in the North?  You hate the fucking North."

"It grows on you," Jaime said with a secret smile.  Tyrion caught sight of Brienne standing in the doorway at the same time Jaime did.  Brienne looked different, Tyrion thought.  Happier.  Maybe she and Jaime were both fools, but they'd managed to find some sort of warmth in the frozen North that Tyrion certainly hadn't found.  Maybe it was better to be a happy fool.

"Lady- _Ser_  Brienne.  I'll see myself out."  She gave Tyrion a wary glance and he felt a twinge of shame at the dig he'd made in their last interaction.  If Lannisters apologized, he would do so.  As it was, he left the two lovers to themselves.

 

The council, in Tyrion's opinion, was a mess.  It consisted of Daenerys, Varys, Grey Worm, and Missendei, of course.  But with Brienne of Tarth and Arya Stark in the room, it felt more like a hodge-podge of friends of the Queen and Jon Snow than anything else.  And Jaime, of all people, Tyrion's brother who, although Tyrion loved him dearly enough, had little enough military prowess and absolutely no love for Jon or Daenerys.  Why would the Queen even trust him enough to let him sit in?  God knows she didn't even want him fighting against the white walkers.  Tyrion's best guess was that Sansa had worked her magic to get Brienne in and Brienne had dragged Jaime along.  

Judging by the hard set of Daenerys' mouth, neither of them was exactly a welcome guest.  Perhaps Sansa was even less welcome, but there she was, imperious and beautiful as always, dressed in pure black.  No doubt mourning for her people.  She was one of the few people who actually belonged here.  

"We lost over a quarter of the northern army," Sansa began, moving some of the pieces off the board.  "And another quarter need to stay here to rebuild.  If they don't, my people will die."

"I need them all," Daenerys said, her mouth still in a tight thin line.  "The North pledged to serve me.  _Your lord_ pledged to serve me.  And your men will serve."  

"If you don't give us enough men, _your grace,_ northerners, who you claim as your people, will freeze to death.  Winter is still coming, army of undead or not.  And winters in Westeros are different than they are across the narrow sea."  Sansa's voice dripped with disdain.  Daenerys stiffened, then glanced at Jon.  Jon.  Interesting boy, that one.  Tyrion had always thought so.  Quiet sort, but not without a mind of his own.  A mind smaller than Sansa's or even little Bran's, but still a decent mind behind his pretty face.  Shame he was a bastard.  He'd make a good king.  Jon gave Daenerys a look, and the queen sighed, closing her eyes.

"You can keep half of what you asked for.  The rest come with me."  Sansa nodded.  The moment Daenerys turned away, she smiled, a small smile, but nonetheless.  That one... she was one to look out for.  Tyrion studied her closely.  She clearly hadn't expected to get to keep an eighth of the army.  She started the bargaining high on purpose.  And easily out-maneuvered the queen.  How much had she learned from Little Finger and how much had been innate?  Tyrion supposed he'd never know.

"As for the rest, the men need time to recover," Sansa continued.  "They're wounded and exhausted.  If you want them to fight well for you, then wait a few weeks more."

"We don't have a few weeks," Grey Worm said, standing suddenly.  The table quieted.  "The travel to King's Landing will take at least three weeks as it is.  How many reinforcements can Cersei get in that time?  How better prepared will her arsenal be for us?"

"By dragon, the time to King's Landing is far shorter," Daenerys began.

"The rest of us don't have dragons," Jon snapped.  Tyrion raised an eyebrow.  How out of character.  "Sorry.  But we don't.  You can't take King's Landing alone.  Not even with two dragons.  We need the army of the North with us.  And whatever's left of the Dothraki.  And the Unsullied."

"Not enough," Grey Worm muttered, his eyes flashing at each of the people around the table, daring them to disagree.  No one spoke.

"Fine," Daenerys said slowly, a strange tremble to her voice.  "We give the armies two weeks to prepare-"

"Even so, your Grace, we need to think of the odds," Tyrion said finally.  Grey Worm sat back down, eyes blazing.  "This isn't a hundred years ago.  You're not Aegon riding in with beasts no one knows how to defeat.  Cersei will have thought of that.  Well.  Her advisors will have, at least.  They have better weapons now.  Scorpions.  And there are rumors that Euron Greyjoy has more than that.  Rumors that he has a dragon horn."

"Dragon horns are mythical," Daenerys said dismissively.

"And dragons were extinct, your grace.  Until they weren't."  She took a deep breath.  When she opened her eyes she looked calmer.  More herself.

"So you believe the rumors, then?"

"I don't know," Tyrion answered honestly.  "But I do know my sister wouldn't keep him as her bedmate if she didn't have something to gain.  My sister isn't as smart as she thinks she is, but she isn't stupid either.  He has something more to offer her than his fleet.  I'd bet my right hand on it."  He glanced at Jaime, satisfied to see his brother roll his eyes.  Daenerys nodded slowly.

"Alright.  I trust your council on this.  What do you propose?"

"We kill Cersei."  Jaime tensed.  A few people around the table laughed.  Sansa's lips turned upward and she tilted her head as though she was finally interested in the conversation.  "It sounds mad, I know.  Cersei is paranoid beyond paranoid.  She's lost her three children already and fears she'll lose the one growing in her belly.  If there is one.  But it can be done.  And far fewer lives will be lost than attacking the city outright.  My sister cares little for her people, and she will not be afraid to use them as shields."

"I could do it," Arya Stark said suddenly.

"You kill one Night King and suddenly you think you can sneak into a castle and kill a queen?"

"I snuck into a castle and killed a lord.  After I fed him his sons."  The room went deathly quiet.  

" _You_ killed Lord Frey?" Brienne asked, looking impressed.

"He murdered my mother and my brother."

"Interesting," Lord Varys said looking amused.  "Cersei never did notice the little birds of the castle.  And you certainly don't look like a lady.  No offense, Lady Arya."

"None taken.  Let me do it."  Sansa put a hand on Arya's arm and gave her a warning look.  Jon and Sansa exchanged a glance and Jon cleared his throat.

"I don't want my little sister running off and getting herself killed.  We can't put our fates into the hands of a little girl."

"I'm eighteen," Arya said.  She shrugged off Sansa's hand.  "I killed Walder Frey's sons and fed them to him.  Then I killed him too.  I trained with the best assassins in the Seven Kingdoms.  I brought Winter to its knees singlehandedly.  I will kill this petty queen too."  She paused, her cheeks high with color.  Had she been born a man, the brave little thing would have made a good knight.  "And if it doesn't work, you try something else."  She looked at Daenerys, eyes hard.  "You have nothing to lose."  Daenerys smiled.

"Fine.  You'll go.  You leave tomorrow."  Arya inclined her head and leaned back in her chair.  Tyrion focused on Daenerys, the way she looked at Sansa with a hint of smug satisfaction.  Sansa's eyes grew cold.  The two women locked eyes for a long moment before Sansa finally looked away.  Tyrion made a note to try to think of a way to fix the rift.  Daenerys needed the north if she was ever to hold the throne.  And Sansa... Sansa was making a place for herself in the north.  Tyrion had a feeling that would only grow.  

He stayed seated as the make-shift council left the room.  Jaime waved Brienne on, moving to sit beside Tyrion.  Tyrion glanced at him.

"So you and the big woman finally talked, I take it?"

"You were going to send me," Jaime said, resting his good hand atop his golden one.  "Before the Stark girl volunteered.  You were going to send me to kill Cersei."

"And they say you're the stupidest Lannister."  

"Not that stupid.  I'm the only one she wouldn't kill on sight.  I know how to get into the Red Keep.  It's a smart plan."  Tyrion nodded, glancing down at his hands.

"Would you do it?  If it came down to you being the only option?"

"You don't think the Stark girl-"

"Forget the Stark girl.  In the end, if you were faced with killing Cersei and potentially your unborn child, could you do it?"  Jaime didn't hesitate before shaking his head.  "I thought not.  It crossed my mind to send you.  Of course it did.  But whether you admit it or not, you still love her.  You wouldn't come back.  And I need you, Jaime.  At my side or at Winterfell, fine.  With Cersei, you'll end up dead, by her hand or by the Queen's."  Jaime stared at the table for a long moment.

"I don't want to go back to her," he said finally.  His voice broke at the end and his eyes held more water than usual, though he didn't cry.  Tyrion put his hand atop both of Jaime's.

"Then don't," he said, keeping his tone bright.  "Stay here.  Stay happy.  Stay alive, for the gods' sakes.  Fuck the Maid of Tarth.  Protect the Starks.  And leave Cersei to me."  Jaime finally glanced up and met Tyrion's eyes.  Tyrion smiled as sincerely as he could.  Jaime smiled back and clapped him on the shoulder, pulling himself to his feet.

"You know, she's not a Maid anymore.  You'll have to think of something else insulting to call her."

"I will, brother," Tyrion said grinning.  "I will."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Jon! The one after is what's left of Loras Tyrell...


	3. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, after this, chapters will be released weekly on Sundays (because even though the show went down-hill, I'm gonna miss my GOT fix). Thank you all for reading! I've got three chapters almost ready to go, and I've gotta say, this is the most fun I've had writing anything in a long time!

Jon lay in bed that morning longer than he should, staring up at the ceiling.  Life had been so much easier when he'd thought he would die at the hands of the White Walkers.  So much simpler.  The fact that he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark- it was shocking, of course.  He hadn't believed it at first.  How could he believe a man like Ned Stark would lie to him his entire life?  But before he had time to really accept it, he needed to prepare for the Battle of the Dead.  That had been his focus, the only thing that really mattered.  And if he was being honest with himself, he never expected to survive.  Now... Now it was over.  Now he had to face the consequences of living.

Disbelief and knowledge battled in his mind, each making their case quite convincing.  He was a Stark bastard.  He believed it.  It was what he'd always been.  But deeper, a bone-deep primal part of him screamed.  His name was Aegon Targaryen.  When Sam said those words, Jon knew the truth of it.  It made his blood burn, made the hairs on his arms stand on end.  He was the heir to the Iron Throne.  And he wasn't a bastard.

Really, that was the worst part.  He had been a bastard all his life.  Resented his father for it, hated himself for it, dealt with everything that came along with it.  And in the end, he'd accepted it.  Risen above it.  Used it to make him stronger.  Unbidden, the words Tyrion Lannister spoke to him so long ago rose to his mind.  "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."  

Being a bastard was part of him.  He had grown around it like a tree grows around a forgotten ax, and now it was buried so deep inside him that removing it would kill him.  And yet- the pain of it was all for nothing.  Every slight, every time Sansa's cruel words tugged at him, every feast where he sat apart from his family.  None of that needed to be.  And fuck if that didn't piss him off.  And the strangest part of all of it was the only person he thought could know how he felt- the only one who'd even begin to understand all of this- was Tyrion Lannister himself.  The hand of the Queen.  

Obviously, he couldn't talk to Tyrion.  But he could talk to Arya and Sansa.  He had to talk to someone, someone who wasn't as invested in the news as Dany was.  Her only reaction was fear and horror.  And Jon understood.  Daenerys was getting so close to what she'd wanted her whole life, so close to ruling the kingdom she always believed was rightfully hers- and then along comes the news that by rights, Westeros wasn't hers after all.  Jon wouldn't be surprised if things were never the same between them.  

He finally pulled himself out of bed, washed his face, and dressed.  He walked to the Weirwood tree, unsurprised to see his three siblings waiting for him there.  Bran gave him that unnerving stare of his and the ghost of his old smile.  Arya granted him a nod.  Sansa stood imperious and cold, a large fur around her shoulders.

"I hoped I might find you here," Jon said.  Arya gave him a twisted little smile, so different from the one she'd worn as a little girl.  

"We hoped you'd come.  Jon, we need to talk about the North."  Jon nodded slowly.  

"What about it?  It's saved."

"From the dead, it is," Sansa said.  "But Jon, the North is separate from the other six kingdoms.  It's different.  It always has been.  A different way of life, different customs, different people.  It's too different for a ruler from King's Landing to know how to rule.  Let alone someone who's barely spent a few years of her life here."  Jon rubbed his hand across his forehead.

"So what do you want?  You want the Iron Throne?  So that someone from the North has a say in how things are run?"

"Of course not," Sansa said.  She and Arya exchanged a glance.  "Jon, the people here made you the King in the North.  You are our king.  You earned it, and you were made for it."

"What you're saying is treason," Jon said in a low voice.  Sansa shook her head.

"No.  Let Daenerys rule the lower six kingdoms.  Help her take them, even.  But when this is all over- when her war is won, the North goes its own way.  A separate nation, allied to Westeros.  But separate.  If it isn't, what happened here during the war will happen again.  While we're still a part of the seven kingdoms, those on the Iron Throne will fear us."

"And- and you think if we were a separate nation Daenerys would- what?  She'd rest easy knowing there's a kingdom to the north with its own army that could march down at any time?"  He scoffed, shaking his head.  "You're mad."

"She's not," Arya said.  "We make it a condition of sending our men with her.  When this is over, the North leaves."

"I already pledged my men to her.  I pledged fealty to her-"

"You know as well as I do that she can't win this war without us.  Not now, with the Unsullied and Dothraki both nearly wiped out, and only two dragons beside her.  She needs us.  And we can bargain for a new agreement,"  Sansa said

"No," Jon answered automatically, shaking his head.  "Absolutely not.  Her armies gave their lives defending the living.  She sacrificed them for all of us-"

"For herself too.  For their lives and her people's lives across the sea-"

"I gave her our word."

"I understand that you want to keep your word," Sansa said, her eyes never leaving his.  "You're an honest man.  And an honorable man.  But men who are only honest and honorable die the way our father did: in foreign lands with swords to their throats.  We need to rethink our position.  I'm not saying we don't help her.  She'd make a good queen.  But I'm not willing to bend the knee to someone who will always fear a rebellion from the North."

"If you weren't so cold to her, she wouldn't have to fear a rebellion from the North."

"Sansa's right," Arya said.  "You need to talk to her, Jon.  Renegotiate.  If she'll listen to anyone, she'll listen to you.  You have the leverage.  Do it for your people.  For the North.  For us.  We're your family."  Jon glanced between them, his secret rising to the tip of his tongue.  He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to swallow it down.  "Please, brother."  Jon met Bran's eyes, which he now realized had been tracking him for the whole conversation.  

"It's your choice."  The girls whirled toward him, matching expressions of confusion on their faces.  Jon took a deep breath.  

"Sansa," he said, meeting the eyes of the girl he'd hated as a child, the woman who he had grown to respect so much.  "Arya."  Arya's eyes were wide now, and she looked young.  Gods, she was young still.  It was easy to forget that when you saw her with a knife in her hand and swords to people's throats, but she was barely a woman.  He smiled at her, a little sad.  She smiled back, and he felt the same twinge at his heart he always did when he looked at her.  She was still his favorite of his siblings.  "I need to tell you something.  Will you swear not to tell another soul?"

"I swear," Arya said automatically.  Sansa stared at him for a long moment.  She nodded.  Jon sighed, taking in a few deep breaths.

"You will always be my sisters. You always have been."

"And you're our brother, Jon.  Not our bastard brother- not our half-brother-"

"You're right about that," he said.  "I'm not the son of Ned Stark.  Well- not by blood."  Sansa's eyes were cold and hard as they always were when she was thinking.  Maybe she'd already worked it out.  Arya, though, waited patiently, her face still confused.  "I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."  Arya opened her mouth, but Jon squeezed his eyes shut.  If he didn't get it all out now, he never would.  "Sam told me.  Bran confirmed it.  

"They married in secret.  He didn't rape her like they thought.  I was born in the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna died giving birth to me.  She made father- Ned- promise as she died that he would protect me.  So he did.  Under the guise of being a bastard.  Before she died- before she died she named me Aegon."  

He didn't want to open his eyes.  He wasn't quite sure what he would find.  They might hate him for it.  They might not believe him.  Worst yet, they might try to convince him to press his claim to the Iron Throne against Dany's.  So he was surprised when he felt arms wrap around him.  Just two at first, then, a few inches higher, two more.  He blinked, his arms awkwardly splayed in the air for a moment as he stared at his sisters.  Then he brought his arms down, bemused.

"I have to say, this is about the last thing I expected."  He glanced over Arya's head at Bran, wondering if he should invite his brother into the hug.  Bran's eyes were still staring at him and Jon shuddered despite himself, deciding against it.  Arya gave him her new twisted smile.

"You looked like you needed it."  She pulled away, and Jon clung more tightly to Sansa for a moment longer.  The second she let go of him, she'd start speaking again.  And Jon still wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear what she had to say.  "You two have to figure this out.  If I don't come back-"

"Don't say that," Sansa said sharply, pulling away from Jon.  "You're coming back, Arya."

"If I don't.  You have to stick together, whatever you decide.  And if I don't come back- you're the last of the Starks.  You too, Jon."  Sansa looked uncomfortable for a moment, then nodded.

"If you choose to use it, you have leverage.  But it is your choice.  I know that."  Jon was sure he hadn't heard the end of it, but at least for now, he was grateful.  He nodded.  Then his gaze turned to Arya.  Her smile faded slowly.

"I'm glad I got to see you again, Jon.  No matter how this turns out."

"It will turn out fine.  You'll kill Cersei and come back to finish this at my side."  Arya nodded, not looking convinced.  She walked to Bran's chair and kissed his cheek.

"Help them, won't you?  When you can?"  Bran's eyes fixed on her, not blinking.

"I will do what I can."

"Aegon.  Sansa.  Good luck."  She walked off, and Sansa exchanged a worried glance with Jon before rushing after her.  Jon walked back to Bran, staring at the strange face on the tree.  

"Bran?" Jon asked, his courage rising now that his secret was laid bare to two of the people he had most wanted to tell.  "What were you doing?  During the Battle of Winterfell, I mean.  Your guards said you-you left."

"I can't tell you that," Bran said complacently, his eyes falling back onto Jon.  Jon shuffled uncomfortably.  "Not yet.  Not until certain events take place.  Or don't."

"Well- can you tell me anything?  What happens to Arya?  What about Dany?"

"Only those who don't know the future wish to know the future.  Those who have seen it long to be kept in the dark," Bran said.  Jon looked away, trying to hide his frustration.

"What good is it to have someone with you who knows the future if he won't tell you a damn word of it?"  Bran smiled, still not blinking.

"In the world of the living, things will play out as they play out.  I can't be concerned with petty wars or clashes of kings.  I am concerned only with the Great War."

"The Walkers, you mean?  We beat them.  They're dead.  Now come back, Bran, from whatever strange world you're dwelling in inside your head and help your family."

"The Great War is not over."  Jon met his gaze, trying to work out what was going on behind his eyes.  He only saw darkness.

"The wights- are they coming back?" he asked.  Bran just gave him that small smile again.  

"The wights aren't the only thing that lies beyond the wall.  Winter is here, Jon.  This-" he paused, gesturing around at the warm air and sunshine, "-is a brief reprieve.  The Long Night is not one battle with one enemy.  It is the living against the dead.  And the living against the things that never lived."

"What the fook does that mean?  Stop speaking in riddles.  Do we need the army here?  In the North?  To keep them out?"  

"I will tell you when you need to do something.  For now, you can live in the world of the living.  Fight your war.  Make your choices."  Jon gave him a last incredulous glare, then stalked off, fuming.  People who actually know everything, he thought, are the worst sorts of people.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Loras, the one after is Arya.


	4. Nuqir (Loras)

Ñuqir

The sun still hurt his skin.  So did the breeze and the feel of his clothes.  He had thought that over time, he would begin to heal and the pain would fade.  It didn't. He didn't.  His skin remained red and black, festering in some places, hardening into lumps of gore in others.  And the pain.  The pain was still there too. It only grew stronger and stronger.  He hurried down the street, adjusting his veil until obscured even his eyes.  He looked strange, he knew, even in King's Landing, but as long as he hunched his back and limped a little, occasionally holding his hand out for alms, no one would pay him much mind.  Maybe he could pass for one of the Silent Sisters

Ñuqir slipped into an alley, leaning against a wall for a moment in a show of exhaustion as he surveyed the scene.  He wasn't being followed.  No one was chasing him, and no one planned to take him back to a dungeon to torture him.  So he told himself.  In reality, every woman he passed looked like Cersei and every man the High Sparrow.  He knocked three times in quick rhythm, then twice more slowly.  The door slid open a crack.

"My sister's horse needs new shoes," he said in his horrible new voice.  It rasped and cracked and hissed at once, all in a reedy low tone.  The One-eyed Fox said he was lucky to regain a voice at all.  Ñuqir often thought he would rather have none.  He didn't need a voice to slice down the Lannisters.

The door creaked open all the way and Ñuqir slipped inside, pulling off his veil as he took his seat at the head of the table.  He held his head as high as he had held it in tourneys, trying not to wince as his arse hit the seat.  A few of the men at the table, the ones he didn't recognize, looked visibly shocked at his appearance.  Good.  Let them be afraid.  Fear... he knew fear.  

As soon as Ñuqir sat, the One-eyed Fox stood, his dark eye shining out brightly against his mop of bright-red hair.  The scarlet robe he wore clashed with his hair in a jarring way that made Ñuqir take more notice of him.  The man didn't smile.  He never smiled.  But a smug sort of satisfaction radiated from him nonetheless, extending to all corners of the room.  The room was silent, then.  Ñuqir could taste the fear, the hate buried just beneath the surface of the air.  That was good too.

"Welcome, brothers.  May the Light of the Seven shine on you.  And may the Lord of Light cast his light upon us.  For what is dead may never die."  A few of the men gathered repeated the last sentence under their breaths, trailing off uncertainly.  Most of them stayed silent.  Silence was the way many of these men had survived, and it was one of the few things Ñuqir could appreciate about them.

Most of them were drawn to the Fox in the aftermath of the destruction of the Sept.  Some of them just loved violence and wanted to see the Red Keep burn.  There were more than he wanted to think about that were there because of the Burned One- the ones who thought the Fox could work miracles.  He hated them more than the others.  Ñuqir- well- Ñuqir didn't give a shit about one religion or the other.  It was strange, seeing so many strangers gathered together from different religions, and different kingdoms, even.  There were even a few pale men with blue stained on their lips- Quaarthian, he thought.  He didn't care what holy mission the Fox had in mind, or which God wanted Cersei dead.  All he cared about was flaying her skin from her body an inch at a time, then doing the same to both her brothers and any bastard children they might have fathered. It didn't matter why they all wanted her dead, though.  They all wanted the same thing.  And the One-eyed Fox could give it to them, even if he was a damned red priest.  

"The time of Azor Ahai is upon us.  Men rise from the ashes of their deaths to live again.  Septs of innocents burn.  Madness and miracles once more become commonplace.  All of you have seen it, even if you don't yet know what it means.  The Long Night is here, and in the darkness lie monsters we can only dream of.  But a monster we know all too well sits upon the Iron Throne."  The table rang with murmurs of disapproval and angry jeers.  "If we are to make way for the prince that was promised- if we are to save and unite the very people we wish to save, we must first destroy the evil that rules us."

"Burn the bitch," someone called from the end of the table.  A few people laughed, but everyone turned to the Fox, waiting for his word.

"Soon.  We don't have the numbers or the weapons we need.  Not yet.  But we have Ñuqir, the Reborn."  The table cheered, loudly this time, and Ñuqir glared at them until they stopped.  "And we have friends inside the Red Keep, waiting to open the gates for us.  And we have you.  The few brave enough to speak out against the unimaginable atrocities the Lion Queen has wrought upon us all."

The talk turned to strategy, to planning innocuous enough that if there was a spy among them, or if someone was captured and tortured, no important information would be found.  These meetings were for recruitment.  For boosting morale.  Anything important passed directly from the Fox to the Follower alone.  Thus Ñuqir was needed to attend each one, despite the pain of being out of bed.  He felt the eyes on him, the glances of soft men who had never felt true pain.  They were necessary.  All of them, as many men as he and the Fox together could bring.  But gods, he hated the soft ones.  The only Followers he could stand were the ones who had lost loved ones in the Sept.  They still had no idea what true pain was, what it was to lose everything that had ever meant anything.  But they, at least, had a cause.

At last, the Fox stood again, his dark eye glaring across them all.

"We must first defeat our Earthly enemies before facing the Great Other.   _Valar morghulis_!"

" _Valar dohaeris,_ " all of the drones replied, well trained.  Finally, they began to trickle out, one at a time with at least ten minutes between them.  A few of the men nervously approached Ñuqir, saw his expression, and turned, seeming to think better of it.  Ñuqir watched them with savage satisfaction.  

They feared him.  Of course they feared him.  He was Ñuqir the Reborn, the man without a face, the Burned One.  Ashes, as his new name meant in High Valyrian.  He was living fear, fueled only by pain and cold desire for revenge.  No longer did he have to smile, to earn their eyes with good lucks and smart words.  Now they looked at him because they couldn't bear not to, couldn't bear having a monster locked in the room with them if they didn't know what he was up to.  They looked because he was a miracle and an abomination at once.  They looked because they wanted to fuel their fear and their rage.  Ñuqir didn't care.  

When finally the rest were gone, and only he and the Fox remained, Ñuqir finally spoke, his throat aching as the scratchy words tore through his throat.

"You have them drooling."  The Fox regarded him with his usual mix of curiosity and revulsion.

"And you have them burning.  One look at you and they're ready to march into the Red Keep alone and unarmed.  The rage-" he cut off, swallowing hard.  "You will end her."

"The only reason I came back," Ñuqir hissed.  "Her and the rest of them.  They are the damned walking.  And soon they will walk no more."

"Yes."  The Fox stroked his chin.  "They will die.  But that's not the only reason you came back, Loras."

"Don't call me that," Ñuqir hissed.  "I told you.  That name means nothing to me now."  The Fox nodded slowly.

"I wish you would let me heal you.  You would be much more comfortable."

"I don't want to be comfortable. I want to be revenged."

"As you shall be."  It was an argument they had had many times before.  The Red Priest offering to make him the way he was when he was golden and young and beautiful.  Before.  But he couldn't lose the edge.  The edge to his anger that kept him thinking, training, pushing forward.  So that when the day came, when the bitch was finally before him, he would be ready.  "You should consider the prophecy.  There is a reason you were pulled back from the grave when the rest stayed in ashes as I prayed over them.  A reason that goes beyond Cersei Lannister."

"I don't care.  I'll finish the whole fucking line of them.  I'll burn them to the ground and anyone who tries to stop me.  Then I will die."  Dying would be an end.  That was all.  Nothing would be waiting for him there.  Nothing and no one.  For just a moment, Renly's face flashed across his mind.  He stood, pressing his tender palms into the hardwood.  The pain made his mind go white.  Good.  "That is _all_  I am here to do.  So use me for whatever you want while I am here.  It won't be long."  That was the most words he'd spoken in days.  His throat ached worse than ever.  He clung to the feeling.  The Fox gave him a hard look and didn't respond.  

Ñuqir turned on his heel and limped back to his tiny little hovel, a room above the One-eyed Fox's dwelling.  It would be nothing to a boy who'd grown up in High Garden and spent his youth either in court or in the Stormlands.  But he wasn't that boy.  He was nothing now but breathing smoke and ash, so the room was good enough for him.  He drank a full glass of wine mixed with milk of the poppy, letting the aching sting of the remains of his skin fade, just for the night.  Halfway through another glass of wine, he drifted to sleep.

As always, the second his eyes were closed, Renly was beside him.  Ñuqir grimaced, trying to look away, but in the logic of dreams, Renly stayed in his vision, staring at him with a stricken expression.  That was the worst of it.  The worst of being half-alive.  The dreams where things that happened to Loras Tyrell still haunted him.  Eternal darkness would be better.  He blinked, finally allowing himself to truly look at his king.

"You're not real," he reminded himself.  "You're in my head."

"Loras," Renly said, and Ñuqir hardened his heart, trying to remind himself he was dreaming.

"Go away.  You're not real.  I don't need you here confusing things."

"Loras," Renly said again.  Ñuqir tried to squeeze his eyes shut, but they wouldn't close.  He was forced to look, forced to take in all of Renly.  That was the way of his dreams now.  No choices left to him.  

"That's not my name.  That's not what I am now.  I am smoke.  Smoke and ash."  Renly simply stared at him.  Ñuqir clenched his fists at his sides.  "Leave, damn you, let me be."

"Loras," the specter said a third time.  Ñuqir felt a tear slip from his eye.

"What?" he asked, his voice how it had been before he burned.  He realized that it didn't hurt to speak, and against his will, he glanced down.  His hands were pale and white, his skin knitted back together.  The tear slowly trailing down his cheek was painless too.  Nothing hurt.  All the pain was gone and he hadn't even noticed.  He choked back a sob, his eyes drawing back to Renly.  The king's eyes were gentle, and as he reached out to take Ñuqir's hand, Ñuqir didn't pull away.

"Live.  Just for a little while.  Live for me."

"No," Ñuqir said stubbornly.  "I don't need to live.  Not to kill the cunt that massacred my sister- my family-"

"Please," Renly said, his other hand reaching up to stroke Ñuqir's face.  Ñuqir found he was finally able to squint his eyes shut, but he couldn't quite bring himself to pull away.  He didn't want to.  He wanted to keep his eyes closed and stay here forever in the soft touch of his king, pretending this was real.

"I can't," he said softly.  Renly stroked his chin, pulling it up the way he used to do when Loras was being particularly belligerent or stubborn, making Loras meet his eyes.  From years of ingrained habit, he opened his eyes, meeting Renly's dark brown ones.  

"Live.  Just for a little while.  When you're done, you'll come back to me.  That's an order from your king."  Ñuqir laughed at that, a small bitter sound.

"No.  I don't want to live.  Not the way you mean."  Finally, Loras pulled himself out of Renly's grasp.  He drank in one last look at Renly.  Not that he needed to.  He would see the king again tomorrow night, and all the nights after until the darkness of death finally took him back into its embrace.  Renly was within him always, whether he was Loras or Ñuqir. He closed his eyes once more and willed Renly away.  When he opened his eyes, he was back in his bed.  He was Ñuqir once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya next, then Aeron Greyjoy (Euron's brother). I'm going to try to bring Euron up to his quality in the books while sticking to mostly show-verse! We'll see how it goes. Thank you all for your comments and kudos. You're wonderful!


	5. Arya

Arya

The Hound rode beside her, quiet as ever.  His usual grimace was wide across his face, and he stared straight ahead, not looking at her.  Arya was glad for the company, even if it was the quiet sullen kind.  He'd shown up the night before without a word, tossed her a wineskin and warmed his feet by her fire.  Now he was beside her, still not speaking.  She rolled her eyes to herself.

"So?  Why are you coming with me, then?  Missed my company so much you simply had to come along?"  He shot her a long look of disdain.

"I'm not here for you, girl.  I've got unfinished business in King's Landing.  Figured since you were leaving now, I'd go.  We attract less attention together."  Arya smirked.

"Right.  Traveling with the Hound is going to draw me _less_ attention."  He shot her another look and she tried to hide her smirk.

"So you're gonna do the queen, are you?  All four feet of you?  Cut through the queen's guard one by one?  Even _you're_ not that good."

"And you're going to march through them to get to the Mountain?"  He huffed audibly.

"Won't need to.  My cunt of a brother will come to me, if I can get close enough first."

"You really think that will work?" Arya asked.  He didn't answer, merely rode on.  "You know that's not a very good plan."

"I don't expect to leave.  That's the difference between you and me.  You need a plan.  I need a good hit.  Maybe two.  Take the fucker out with me."  Arya shook her head.

"You really think I can kill the queen- assuming I even do that much- and get out of the Red Keep alive?  There's a shot.  Not a good one."  

She'd planned it all out, thought it through as best she could.  Cersei would have people with her at all times.  A trusted guard.  Euron Greyjoy.  More than that, most likely.  Leaving after killing Frey had been easy.  She'd simply worn a different face.  Cersei... the only way she would get out alive is if she killed not only the queen, but everyone with her as well without raising an alarm.  There was a chance, and she would fight for it until her legs gave out, but she wasn't stupid enough to think that it was a good one.   The hound snorted.

"So here we are, two dead men marching to our graves.  I need more ale."

"I could go for a chicken," Arya said, shooting him a side-eyed smile.  He gave her the grimace she'd come to think of his version of a smile.

"An inn, then.  Beds, chickens, and plenty of ale."  

They pulled into the first one they found, tying their horses in a dingy stable with questionable-looking hay.  They stepped into the inn, and Arya felt a sudden sense of disappointment.  It's funny, a year ago a place like this would be a welcome relief.  Now, though, it felt dirty and small, barely better than she'd felt about sleeping on the side of the road last night.  She was growing soft, since Winterfell.  She needed to stay sharp, stay hungry.  

There wasn't any chicken, much to the Hound's disdain, but there was beef stew and day-old bread.  It was a decent meal- a _good_ one for being on the road.  She let the bread soak a little in the stew before tearing her teeth into it.  The hound ate his food, glaring at it all the while.  They shared a tankard of ale, which the barmaid kept nice and full.  Clegane gave her a look as she emptied it again.

"So you and that Baratheon bastard.  You going back to him if you make it out alive?"

"No," Arya said shortly.  Clegane raised an eyebrow.  "Why do you care?"

"He'd be good for you, girl.  Nice normal boy- not the type to go off and become an assassin-"

"I knew I should never have told you-"

"Don't be a cunt."  He paused, watching the bargirl refill their mug.  He looked more interested in the ale than the girl, and sure enough, as soon as the pitcher left her hand he took a huge gulp.  "After every fucking thing you've gone through- after all the shit you've seen-  doesn't a nice normal boy who can barely aim his piss sound good to you?  You could use a break."

"I don't want a break," Arya said, grabbing the tankard once more.  The ale was good.  And it was tasting better now.  That was usually the first sign she got that she should stop drinking, but how many more chances would she have to do this?  Certainly less than ten.  She was drinking enough for the rest of her days.  "I don't want boring.  I never have.  And of all fucking things, I don't want to be a lady."  

He grimaced, turning back to his stew, and Arya felt a surge of guilt.  Sandor Clegane had saved her life again and again.  He could act like he didn't care all he wanted, but it still was probably painful for him to see her marching off to her death.  At least she'd done some good, made what he did worth it.  _I hope he dies first,_ she thought morbidly, _so he can die knowing I'm still alive._   

They walked upstairs together, Arya stumbling more than walking.  She thought she heard Clegane chuckle as she nearly tripped over her own feet.  She made a rude gesture at him and stumbled into her room, collapsing onto the bed before she even took her shoes off.  She stared up at the ceiling, a slight smile playing at the edges of her mouth.  Despite the fact that she was on her way to almost certain death, despite the fact that the straw bed was somehow both lumpy and hard, it felt good to be back on the road.  It felt good to have a purpose, to have someone on her list to hunt down.  She repeated the names vaguely under her breath until she felt her eyes start to close.  It was an old ritual.  But still one with power.  At least she'd get one more of the bastards, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

 

They travelled hard the next few days, despite Arya's aching head and rolling stomach.  They stayed mostly on the King's Road.  This far from King's Landing, it was unlikely anyone would recognize them.  And if they did, Arya thought neither she nor the Hound would have any qualms about killing the messengers before they could get to Cersei.  She found she was grateful for his company.  He was a surly old bastard, true, but he was a surly old bastard who had protected her for years.  They had an easy sort of camaraderie she'd never shared with anyone else, and though they didn't talk much, just having him beside her again was comforting.

They spent two days sleeping on the side of the road, but on the third, they found an inn.  An inn serving chicken and good ale.  Arya dug into hers, feeling the sharp tang of the wine mix with the warm salt of the chicken in her mouth.  Sandor's eyes were closed, and for once, he almost looked peaceful.   Maybe the soothing combination of the warm inn and the good food were what he needed all along, she thought wryly.  She set her glass down a little harder than necessary and the Hound jumped slightly, turning baleful eyes to her.

"Try to stay awake.  I don't want to carry your sorry ass up all those stairs."

"I should have left you to die on the road all those years ago," he grumbled.

"And miss my company? You would have died of boredom long ago had you done that."

"Maybe so, girl," he said, his scowl lightening for just a moment.  She grinned at him.

The door banged opened to reveal a band of five men in dirty well-worn clothes.  They were knights, she saw, judging by the scabbards that hung at their sides, but not well-off knights.  Probably the sons of lesser lords.  Or deserters.  Her hand automatically curled around needle's hilt.  They didn't look like a threat, but the whole kingdom was in desperate disarray.  And desperate people did stupid things.  To her relief, they side-stepped her and Sandor and sat around the table behind them.  They slumped over the wood, looking only half-awake as the maid walked over to them, her eyes full of caution.

"Help you, gentlemen?" she asked softly.

"Wine.  And a room.  Please," one of them said in a hoarse voice.  All of them stared down at the table, not even glancing at Arya or the Hound.  They weren't a threat, she realized.  At least not right now.  The barmaid nodded and hurried off.  The men seemed to collapse further.

"If we're caught, we're dead men," one of the soldiers said, glancing wearily around the room.  Arya focused on her food, more interested in hearing what they had to say than staring at them.  "The queen isn't known for her mercy."

"If we _stay_ we're dead men," another retorted.  "When you're trying to fight dragons with steel, you've gone entirely mad.  Maybe the Targaryen girl will have mercy on us."

"I leave you at Moat Cailin," a third man said, voice trembling.  "With dragons and dead things walking and worse... north isn't any better than south."

"Deadmen are fairytales for children and fools," the second spat.

"Aye, and the North has room for the likes of us," another man said.  "And they don't ask questions.  If the Dragon Witch needs soldiers, if she presses us to service, at least we'll be on the side of the dragons."

"They're not just stories," the third said.  His voice was low and serious.  "I know a man who saw one.  The things... there are many who speak of them.  Not madmen.   Respected men of the city that say the Dragon Queen and Ned Stark's bastard fought the deadmen and pushed them back.  That much is known.  They say they beat a dragon that spit ice-fire at its foes and flew on winds of snow.   And a King made of ice and glass."

"A king made of glass?  Have you been at your sister's pipe again, Quiggly?"

"I mean it.  Monsters.  The long winter is on us.  Real monsters walk in with the snow.  And I don't care if you believe it or not.  I won't go further north than Moat Caitlin."

"Fine," the second man said.  "Do what you will.  I'm riding to Winterfell.  Fighting is my life and I'm not about to give it up because some bint thinks she can outlast dragons by throwing every damned fool in King's Landing at em."  

There was a long moment of silence, and Arya allowed herself a casual glance over.  The other four men were looking at each other, guilt and shame battling on their faces.  She glanced back into her glass.  They must have just left.  They weren't desperate yet.  And they still felt shame rather than the anger, believed by the holders to be righteous, she'd seen in most of the deserters she'd come across.  She exchanged a look with the Hound, able to read him well enough to realize he was thinking the same thing.

"Do what you will, Harrel.  I'm with Quiggly.  The South holds a cunt who'd blow up a sept full of her own people.  And the North holds a foreign whore fighting with savages and eunuchs.  Beyond the wall, maybe there's worse, maybe there's not.  But I'm settling down halfway between.  With any luck, I'll avoid the worst of it.  And I'd advise you do the same."

"Cowards," the second muttered.  Those around him wore expressions ranging from outraged to guilty, but no one spoke.  After a long moment, the second continued.  "Drink your ale, fuck your Riverland girls, and bury your heads in the fucking dirt.  You can't ignore this forever.  Something is coming.  I feel it in the air with every breath.  By the time all of this is over, all of us will have to choose a side.  And I'm on the side of the bitch with the dragons."  

With that he stood and stormed out of the inn, leaving his companions to watch his back until it disappeared.  Shame-faced and avoiding meeting each others' eyes, they filed upstairs, leaving Arya and the Hound alone once more.  He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Bet there'll be loads more of them," she said reflectively.  He nodded.  "On both sides."

"On the one hand, you've got a bitch like Cersei.  On the other, a foreigner.  None of them will go for either.  There will be others who rise.  Fucking Moonboy might even get his shot at the throne."

"It won't stop, will it?" Arya realized suddenly, feeling ice creep around her heart.  "Killing Cersei won't stop anything.  The people- they'll never accept a foreign army quartered in their homeland.  And Daenerys won't get rid of them-"

"Girl," the Hound said, taking a long swig of the mysterious black liquid in his cup.  "Every king's a cunt.  Every queen's one too.  People bitch and moan and rebel under whoever it is that rules them, and that'll never change, no matter whose arse sits on that pile of swords.  All the rest of us can do is complain and pray to whatever fucking gods we don't believe in that we're not killed in the crossfire."  Arya stared at him for a long moment, her lips pursed together.

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"No," Sandor said, emptying his glass down his throat.  "It's to tell you that nothing anyone does ever fucking matters.  Not in the world of the living.  You killed death itself.  You've done the duty of a few thousand men.  Why's Cersei your duty too?  Fuck em all.  Leave them to rot in their petty shit.  Go off into the country somewhere with your Baratheon bastard and live out your days in peace."  He glanced away like he was surprised he'd let so much emotion out.  Arya put her hand on top of his, just for a moment before pulling it away.

"You know I could give you the same speech about the Mountain"

"Fuck the Mountain.  That's personal."

"So's Cersei," Arya said fiercely.  "She's been on my list as long as anyone-"

"Including me," the Hound said with a rare grin.  She grinned back.

"Including you.  And don't think you're off it now, either.  Just because you've saved my life a few times-"

"Fuck off, girl, I better stay on that list until the day you die.  Just think about it.  That's all.  You've done enough."

"Sandor," she said softly.  The Hound turned to her, for once showing his surprise openly on his face.  "Thank you.  But I have to do it.  I don't know why.  But I know I do.  I have to be there."  He nodded, frowning.  They finished their food and slept a night before heading back onto the road.  Arya felt her fear and apprehension slowly slip away with every mile that took them closer to King's Landing, replaced by a steel nerve.  She would get to Cersei.  She would kill the queen or die trying.  She'd made up her mind now.  And as she rode on beside the man she'd ridden so many times with, she finally felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next we've got Aeron Greyjoy, then Jaime. I hope you guys are enjoying this! It's been a lot of fun to write.


	6. Aeron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, buckle up, buckaroos. This chapter gets a little darker than usual. Trigger warnings for some (light) description of torture and mention of past sexual assault (book canon).

Aeron Greyjoy

The room was cool and damp, and the other priests slept around him, suspended from their chains in the brig of the _Silence_. Aeron didn't sleep.  He hadn't slept in weeks.  If he was being honest, he hadn't slept since before the return to King's Landing.  Really, he hadn't slept more than an hour or two a night since Falia Flowers finally died.  His brother's _gift_ to him, he'd been assured.  The gift of a companion tied to the bow of the ship beside him while they traveled, cruel farces of figureheads starving on the bow.  Aeron had gone a week without food before Euron deigned to spoon-feed him.   He must have done the same for the other priests, for most of the ones Aeron had come to learn by sight were still alive in the dark beside him.  For Falia, though, nothing.  She had died a cruel, slow death by starvation beside him, her unborn child falling from her womb merely a day before she succumbed to death herself.  

And worse awaited Aeron.  His brother's words echoed in his head, more and more tempting by the day.   _Pray to me. Beg me to end your torment, and I will._ There were days that Euron seemed the only god Aeron had ever known.  The Drowned God, after all, never answered him anymore, never spoke even when half Aeron's body was submerged in salt water, the other half baked with the heat of the sun.  The Drowned God hadn't helped him when he lay in the dungeons of Pyke, his feet swollen with water until they were unrecognizable.  It had taken weeks of drier air before they'd begun to feel normal again.  Before, most days, he could push those thoughts aside.  But every day they grew louder, more insistent that he listen.  And since Falia had finally died beside him, since he spent the next four days breathing in her sun-rotted corpse before Euron had cut her free.... well.  Since then, the thoughts were ever present in the back of his mind.  

It would be easy, he thought, to beg Euron for death.  But if he begged, if he _prayed_ to someone that was not the Drowned God, he would never feast in the Drowned God's watery halls.  And most of him still believed.  He wasn't foolish enough to risk it.  This life was but to endure.  The next was the one to live for.  Still.  The thought of Falia dead and rotting beside him... the smell of it that still lingered in the wood... that was enough that his faith was- if not shaken- tested.  And Aeron felt the stirrings of something he thought he would never feel again.  The stirrings of change, as though parts of him were dying, drowning, changing once more, the way they had when the Drowned God had claimed him.

 

Euron came to him in the dark the way he always had.  The only thing missing now was the creak of a rusty hinge.  These hinges were well-oiled, but Aeron thought he could almost hear the creak in his mind.  The other prisoners knew better than to try to make a sound.  Well.  Those with tongues, at least.  The others could merely gape.  Aeron glanced up wearily into the light of the torch Euron bore, meeting his brother's eyes.  He frowned.  Euron had only one eye showing.  The other was covered with a black patch, and a line of red liquid dripped down from the cloth.  Someone had managed to take a chunk from Euron.  Good.

"Good eve, brother."

"What happened?" Aeron asked.  It was the boldest thing he'd dared say in weeks.  Euron simply smiled at him, his visible eye dancing.

"Why, I made a sacrifice.  You, of all people, should know the sacrifices that must be made at times for gain."

"You have no gods," Aeron muttered before he could stop himself.  Euron knelt beside him, close enough to kiss.  Or to bite.  

"No," he said softly.  "But still, a price must be paid."

"For what?"

"You'll see, my dear Aeron," Euron said, pinching his cheek.  

Aeron's heart sank.  There was near nothing worse Euron could still do to him.  But the people of the Iron Islands... Euron Greyjoy wasn't bound by ties of family or morality.  He wasn't bound to his lands or his possessions; Euron could not have cared less for those.  That was why his men were so fervently loyal, even after he'd cut out their tongues.  He took almost nothing for himself, deigning instead to share his spoils among his men.  Euron wasn't bound to anything.  That was what made him so terrifying in Aeron's eyes.  Most men, you could find their weaknesses deep in their eyes.  The things they would do anything to defend.  Euron... Euron's eyes were deep pits of mirth, spiraling down and down forever.

"If Cersei knew what you are- what you truly are- she'd have your head on a spike."  Euron nodded thoughtfully.  

"My dear queen knows all she needs to know.  I brought her the iron-born.  I pretend, as does she, that I put her brother's child in her belly.  I even ferried the Golden Company across the sea."

"All trifling things to you."  Euron had given Falia everything she asked for too.  Gold, jewels, dresses, a pregnancy... and look how she had ended up.

"So it is no matter to give them to her.  What can I say?" Euron smiled that charming smile of his that had fooled so many people.  Never Aeron.  "I live to make my queen happy."  Aeron let Euron spoon a few bites of gruel into his mouth, licking the spoon clean each time.  "Will you pray to me, Aeron?  I can end this.  All the suffering- all your pain.  Pray to me and forsake your god and it will be done."  Aeron ate a few more bites before Euron put the spoon down.

"No," Aeron said, a tremble in his voice.  Euron shrugged.  

"Very well."  He turned to the door.  "Get my knife."  Aeron's heart leapt, and he called it back in horror.  He should not wish for death.  Despite it all, he should face life as bravely as Sauron Salt-tongue.  Euron noticed Aeron's face and shook his head, still smiling.  "I'm not going to kill you, blood of my blood.  Maybe it's... losing so many family members... so fast.  Balon, Theon-"

"One of whom you killed," Aeron said, past the point of caring.  Theon was dead, then?  Shame, Aeron supposed. The boy was always weak, always less than his sister.  Still, there was something to be said about the loss of a nephew.  Aeron felt the twinge of his death on top of all his other pains.

"The other of which was really dead once he lost his cock, but his heart beat on until the Northmen killed him.  I'd turn you into one of my mutes before I killed you." 

Aeron stared, wondering if life could be any worse without a tongue.  A mute appeared, Euron's valyrian steel dagger in his hand.  Euron took the knife, studying the blade in the dim torchlight.  Aeron tilted his head back, exposing what little of his neck wasn't covered in his thick, long beard.  He stared into Euron's eye, his own eyes hard and unafraid.  To his surprise, Euron's knife brushed down his chest, then across his right arm, like the caress of a lover.  He shuddered.  He couldn't see Euron's other hand.  Where was Euron's other hand?  What worse fate did it hold?

"What are you doing?"

"I told you.  I'm not going to kill you.  At least not now.  But brother, I fear you will not remain a Holy Man for long.  Well.  Not the Drowned God's holy man.  And I need the blood of a Drowned God's priest, so-" He shrugged apologetically and opened the vein across Aeron's elbow.

It was strange.  The pain was sharp, but it was different.  It was... it was a _relief_.  A relief from the dull aching things, from the pain of being held still for so long.  A relief from the twinges in his back, his feet, a relief from the scalp he couldn't scratch and the rat bites he couldn't sooth.  A broken groan escaped from his lips, a groan that sounded like ecstasy.  He prayed Euron had mistaken it for pain, but when he glanced at his brother, Euron's leer was wide and knowing.  Of course it was.  Euron always knew.  In his other hand, he held a black bowl, and Aeron watched his blood drip into it, quickly at first, then ebbing to a soft trickle of red.  Euron's hand reached out and stroked his cheek.

"My, my, little brother.  If I'd known you'd enjoy it this much, I might have bled you months ago."

"May the drowned god curse your every living moment," Aeron spat.  "And make your death a living hell."

"You have more to fear from death than I," Euron said, his hand still stroking Aeron's cheek.  It was the only soothing human contact he'd had in weeks, and he leaned into the touch out of some bare human instinct for comfort.  The sharp pain in his arm faded to a dull blur as Euron removed the knife, pressing the bloody flat edge of the blade against Aeron's lips.  Aeron's eyes never left the bowl, now half-full of dark thick liquid.  "But pray to me and I'll see you don't fear it any longer."  

Aeron tried to flinch away, but there was nowhere for his head to go.  It was already pressed into the stone behind him.  Euron laughed softly, brushing the blade across Aeron's long insect-ridden beard twice to clean it.  He pressed a finger into the weeping wound on Aeron's arm, and Aeron hissed as sharp pain washed over him once more.

"I won't take too much at a time.  But I need a man's worth.  Little by little, then, you and I will make a man."  Aeron shuddered at the thought of it.  A man made of blood.  His blood.  A man Euron would be able to control with as little effort as a flick of his wrist.  "Goodbye, little brother.  I'll send someone in to wrap that."  Euron left, taking the torch with him.  Once again, Aeron was swallowed whole by darkness.  Right now, he didn't mind.  He was glad Euron could no longer see his face.  

The next day when Euron came to bleed him, Aeron didn't protest.  He stayed still, letting the sharp edge of the metal slide across the wound from the day before.  He relished the sharp blinding burn of it, the few seconds where all he felt was his arm, all the dull aches fading to nothing.  Again, a sort of moan passed through his lips without his permission, a moan of release and relief.  His blood fell into the bowl for what felt like hours, and as Aeron's pain faded, he fell back into his body, disappointed the feelings had ended.  He almost didn't care that Euron was giving him a speculative look, a look Aeron had seen before.  It took him a few moments to remember he was used to seeing that look preceded by the scream of a rusty hinge.

"After all this, after all I've seen, you still surprise me," Euron said matter-of-factly, setting the bowl of blood beside him on the ground.  He gripped Aeron's chin and forced Aeron's eyes to meet his.  Euron pushed a finger into his arm and the blinding pain returned, blessed and cursed both at once.   He bit his lip, trying not to give Euron the satisfaction of a sound.  He failed, but the gasp that escaped him was soft, barely noticeable.  To anyone but Euron, that is, who moved his finger away, pressing it again to Aeron's lips. "Once we bleed a holy man from you, little brother, we'll have to explore this."

"Why won't you just kill me?" Aeron muttered softly.  It wasn't begging.  He could never- would never- beg for death.  But it was close.  He would admit it, if only for a moment.  He wanted to die.  He wanted this to end, even if all that waited for him was darkness.  At this point, feeling nothing would be a blessed relief.  But he also wanted to know- genuinely wanted to know- the answer to the question. Euron's smile faded slightly, and for just a second he looked thoughtful.

"I don't know.  You see me, brother mine.  You're the only one who ever has.  And I want to be seen."  His words were... serious.  How unlike Euron.  Aeron frowned, waiting for more pain.  Maybe Euron would take his tongue or tie him back onto the mast, Cersei's opinion be damned.  Maybe he'd cut off Aeron bits at a time and feed them to the sharks while Aeron was forced to watch.  Euron was more than capable of it.  He was capable of much worse if he chose to be.  But Euron simply grinned once more, wagging his bloody finger in front of Aeron like he was scolding a naughty child.  "And that doesn't count as begging.  Mark me.  You'll beg before this is through."

He probably would, but for now, at least he could cling to the hope that he'd be dead long before this was all over, even if he was rapidly losing hope that he'd end up in the Drowned God's halls.  Oblivion might even be better.  There would be no more thought.  No more soft voices whose words he couldn't quite make out.  No screams of rusty hinges late at night.

For now, though, he could no more die than he could live.  He tried to ignore the crawling feeling of the insects that made their homes in his tangled hair, tried to ignore the ache that lay constantly where the sharp metal cuffs bit into his hands and ankles, the tight throb of his muscles held too long in an uncomfortable position.  But he couldn't ignore Euron, who hummed as he climbed the ladder from the brig.  He couldn't ignore that small, knowing smile Euron gave him as he opened the hatch.  And as the small wooden door swung closed, Aeron couldn't ignore the sound of it, a sound that could have been in his mind for all he knew, but felt realer than the rest of his existence.  The soft scream of a rusty hinge.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those of yall still with me! Next chapter is Jaime and the one after will be Daenerys.


	7. Jaime

Jaime

He woke with Brienne beside him, as he had for over a week.  Every time surprised him still.  A knight like Brienne didn't belong in his bed.  A knight like Brienne belonged with the best of the best, not a washed-up one-handed sister-fucker.  And yet.  Now more than ever he felt the strange feeling, the one he remembered feeling long ago but not for the past few years.  Not with Cersei, not alone.  Only with Brienne.  It happened more and more often now, the swelling in his breast mixed with a warmth he felt despite the freezing air of the north, the smile he couldn't seem to wipe off his dumb face.  The contented laziness he felt early in the mornings, before either of them were needed, when he could just lay beside her and watch her sleep.  Happiness, he realized after a few days.

It was a strange feeling, being happy with no drink in him.  Not something he'd felt since Myrcella died, and not something he'd felt often even before then.  When he was still blissfully unaware of what Cersei was, he'd occasionally taken solace in being with her, hints of happiness working their way through the haze of shame and addiction and regret.   Had he been alone, had no one else known what he had done to the Mad King, he might have eventually moved past it.  As it was, with the whispers of _Kingslayer_ , and often louder voices daring to spit the word at him too, there were constant reminders.  Despite himself, despite how sure he still was that he'd made the right choice, every time he heard _Kingslayer_ , every time he heard Aerys's name, he ran through the scene again, trying to find out a path, a better way he could have saved the people without betraying his vows too.  With Brienne, he didn't have to think about it.  

He wasn't sure what it was.  Maybe it was having someone so pure, so good, that stayed beside him.  Someone that looked at him like he wasn't a murderer, like he wasn't worthless for anything except killing.  And if someone like Brienne thought he was worth more than that, maybe he was.  But it was more than just that.  Just being around her, seven hells, just looking at her made him smile.  He was like a love-sick virgin, following her around like a puppy.  He felt like a puppy.  And yet somehow he didn't mind.  

She blinked sleepily, her lips twitching as she caught sight of him staring.

"What're you lookin' at," she asked, her voice heavy with sleep.  He reached out hesitantly and brushed a strand of hair from her face.  Brienne was still shifty about physical contact when they weren't fucking.  He often had to trick her into kissing him or even putting an arm around his shoulders.  But when she was half-awake like this, she leaned into him, seeking after the touch. 

 

"Your eyes- they really do look like sapphires, you know," he said absent-mindedly.  She rolled her eyes but moved closer to him, a lazy arm flinging over his back.  

"You don't have to try to convince me that I'm beautiful," she said, her voice as dry and practical as ever.  "You've already got me in your bed."

"And yet here I am, still saying it.  Must make you wonder if maybe I'm not lying," Jaime said, pressing his lips to hers before she could answer.  She kissed him back after a moment, then grabbed his hair, pulling his face away with a rare smirk.  Jaime rolled to his other side, pressing his back against her.  She'd stay beside him longer if she couldn't see his face, if she didn't question his every change in expression.

"You're a notorious liar, Jaime Lannister.  I wouldn't trust you if you told me it was snowing while we stood in the snow."

"Is that right, Ser Brienne?  You trust me enough to sleep beside me."  His hand reached behind to stroke down her side, landing on her buttock.  He squeezed it tightly, gasping in mock surprise.  "And without any armor to protect you.  Not even the cloth sort."

"So long as you're equally unarmed, I have nothing to worry about.  Hand to... well-"  Jaime turned to scowl at her, rolling onto his back to wave his stump in her face.  She was still smirking.  "I could beat you easily if we were both unarmed."

"Words are wind, ser.  I'd like to see you try." 

She fell on top of him as he hoped she would, pressing her hips down to his.  They scrapped for a minute or so before Brienne pinned him, triumph in her eyes.  Jaime told himself he let her do it, but deep down, he wasn't quite sure.  But the weight of her, the fact that she had him held helpless, the sight of her triumphant grin... it had the usual effect on him.  His cock twitched beneath her, hardening quickly.

"I thought we agreed no weapons," she said, her hand wrapping around him.  "But it seems you have a sword.  Even at this, you find a way to cheat."

"I suppose you're right," Jaime said, gulping.  "Dishonest even in this."  She stroked him slowly, sending shivers of pleasure up his spine.

"It's alright.  I know how to manage you."  That was the truest thing Jaime had heard all day.

 

They still managed to wash and dress before the sun rose, making their way to the room Daenerys had set aside for her small council room.  Neither of them, of course, were on the small council, but Sansa was, and Brienne was the Captain of the Guard.  Which, as far as Jaime could tell, was the closest thing Winterfell had to a Kingsguard.  He wasn't sure why exactly the Stark girl needed a guard, it seemed a guard would be better served watching over her brooding half-brother.  Jon Snow seemed more likely to get into trouble.  But Jaime trusted Brienne, and if she wanted Sansa guarded, he would guard her.  It wasn't his job to question why.

They stood along the walls beside some of Daenerys's remaining unsullied, watching the proceedings from afar.  Unlike the rest of his family, Jaime had never been much interested in politics.  He didn't have the ambition for it, or the desire.  Ruling took constant effort, constant struggle against everyone around you in order to accomplish anything.  For Jaime, fighting, defending, and following orders were where he thrived.  If he did anything else, if he let himself think further... something like Aerys could happen again.  Now that he knew Brienne, he was perfectly content to follow her anywhere.

"Have we heard from Dorne?" Daenerys Targaryen asked from her place at the head of the table.  Varys cleared his throat.

"They're mobilizing their armies.  I think it will take them at least another month to prepare.  They'll travel half by sea, half by land as you requested, but I think it's fair to assume Greyjoy ships will mobilize to meet them as they cross the Narrow Sea.  If what remains can make their way to Dragonstone, they can regroup there.  Or we can try to meet them."

"What of Yara Greyjoy's ships in the Iron Isles?"

"On their way to meet the Dornish in Dorne now.  They're still a ways away, but they'll help.  We can't underestimate Euron, your grace.  He might play the bumbling fool to Cersei, but he's a true threat.  His men are fearless, and fearfully loyal.  And I have word more are joining him even now.  On land and on sea."

"How is that possible?" Sansa asked, leaning forward. "He and his men have barely moved further than the road between the Red Keep and the harbor."

"There may be a movement within King's Landing.  There are rumors of large gatherings, of a dead man that lives once more pulling his people together.  And it seems from at least one of my little birds that Greyjoy might be involved."

"Is it a real threat?" Daenerys asked, shooting a worried look at Sansa.  

"Not yet.  But it's something to be aware of."  Tyrion cleared his throat.

"There is the matter of what's to be done with the wildlings.  They're growing unruly being cooped in here.  Drinking all the ale and generally making a nuisance of themselves.  But they won't go back beyond the wall."

"They're the freefolk.  They won't fight for me, they've made that quite clear.  Haven't they always wanted to be beyond the wall?" Daenerys asked.

"They say that winter isn't yet over.  And while the wall is less operable than it was before, I believe it still offers them some cover from what lies in the dark."  Jon Snow exchanged a worried glance with Tyrion and Sansa.  "But right now there doesn't seem to be much of a threat from the North.  If I might make a suggestion?"  Daenerys nodded.  Tyrion faced the queen, but his eyes flickered over Jon as he spoke as well.  "Send them to Last Hearth.  It's empty now.  It's safe.  They can rebuild it and have a place for their people on this side of the wall.  And they can be out of our hair.  Unless Lord Snow can convince them to join us."

"No," Snow said shortly.  Daenerys shot him a look, and his expression darkened.  "They do not kneel.  Not for anyone.  They're my friends, not my men, and I won't ask that they do more than they've already done.  They're beyond the Seven Kingdoms."  Daenerys's mouth thinned to a tight line, but she nodded.

"Alright.  Send them to Last Hearth.  They will send word if there are more threats of winter?"

"Tormund will tell me," Jon said, relaxing visibly.  "Thank you, my queen."  Daenerys's mouth softened.

"So we wait for Yara Greyjoy's ships to meet the Dornish and we prepare here.  There are more reinforcements coming in from the Riverlands and the south.  The people, at least some of them, support your claim."  Just because they would choose her over Cersei didn't mean they supported Daenerys, Jaime thought.  But if smarter people than him, including his brother, thought so, it was likely they were right.  "We're mere weeks from war, your grace.  And we'll prepare accordingly."  

The conversation turned away from war, and Jaime focused on scouting out the room and the people he didn't know instead of paying attention to the conversation.  That had been more important with Robert.  He'd had to stop a few assassination attempts, and backlash from disgruntled whores he'd left to raise his bastards.  Sansa didn't have any bastards, which was some small relief.  More than once, Jaime found his gaze wandering to Brienne, lingering on the curves of her body, those bright blue eyes.  He had to shake himself to focus on the task at hand, which was something he'd never struggled with before she came along.  Seven Hells, he was getting soft.  The Jaime of ten years ago would laugh aloud at seeing him now.  Still, it was hard to mind.  

They followed Sansa into the hall, and Tyrion fell back into step beside Jaime.  Brienne walked on ahead of them, only a few steps from Sansa should she be needed.  Jaime felt rather than saw his brother grinning at him, looking very proud of himself.  

"What?" he asked.

"The Tart of Tarth," Tyrion said, a proud smile on his face.  Jaime rolled his eyes.

"You can do better."

"I don't want to do better.  I like it.  Its got everything a good title needs.  Alliteration.  Intrigue.  Just the right amount of insult."

"You're really quite insufferable.  You know that?"

"I believe I've been told that on infrequent occasions.  Never really learned to let it stop me, though. Lady Sansa!  Join me for a glass of wine.  These two lovebirds sit with us and have some of their own."  Sansa gave Tyrion a wry smile, but she nodded, inclining her head toward her quarters.  Brienne's face, when Jaime glanced over at her, was bright red, but she was smiling again.  She shrugged at him and he shrugged back, his eyes glancing toward the ground at the sight of quick movement.  

Jaime frowned as he caught sight of a white spider thats body alone was the size of the fingernail on Jaime's thumb.  He paused, examining it for a moment before stepping on it, feeling a hard crunch beneath his foot.  That was odd.  Too loud a dying sound for such a little beast, and instead of a squish it was a crunch. For a moment, he thought he had stepped on a dead leaf instead, or a stray twig even.  He lifted his boot and his blood ran cold.  There was no body there.  Not on his boot and not on the stone.  Nothing.  Almost nothing.  Nothing but a few shards of ice scattered along the stone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do Dany's next chapter in two parts because it's really long. And Jaime's chapter was short. So Dany Part one will be published Wednesday, and part two will be next Sunday. Then Arya gets another chapter after that.


	8. Dany Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to this chapter being really long, I'm splitting it into two shorter ones. One today, one Sunday.

Daenerys

Daenerys woke past midnight to the sound of direwolves howling somewhere beyond Winterfell.  In the days after the battle, the sound seemed to grow louder each night. Like they were mourning or waiting for something.  She woke up cold. She always did here, her nose aching and the tips of her ears numb, and bits of stray flesh unlucky enough to have become uncovered by her sleeping motions tingling uncomfortably.  She shivered, pulling her many furs more tightly around herself. Out of her window, she caught sight of the eerily white snowflakes falling on the glass. She cursed under her breath. The maester had said it would snow, but still, Daenerys hadn't been ready for it.

She was freezing to death here, mind and body both.  She was fire. She was a dragon. And fires get snuffed out in the cold north.  She took a few deep breaths, trying not to think, but the thoughts came anyway. This wasn't what she had wanted when she set out across the sea, her armies on ships, three dragons in the sky.  Dragonstone, Casterly Rock...  _ that  _ had been what she wanted.  To watch her armies win her homeland back.  To lead them with justice and, often, mercy.  This was her kingdom. Daenerys was meant to be the queen.  And then she'd met Jon and everything had slowly begun to fall apart.

Her heart did the pitter-patter it always did when she thought of him.  It was stupid- pathetic, really. She was a queen, not some love-sick child.  But she'd felt something with him- a kinship. An affinity. She wasn't sure what.  It was different than anything she'd felt with Khal Drogo but no less strong. Something binding them together, pushing them toward each other.  And now he could barely look at her. She bolted out of bed, swearing again as her bare feet hit the stone. Gooseflesh rose up beneath her sleeping clothes, but right now, the cold was good.  It was something to distract her. She slipped past her two guards, and they followed her silently. She paused.

"Not tonight.  Stay here. They'll think I'm still in my rooms."  One of them frowned at her, but they nodded. She felt their eyes on her as she walked down the corridor, feeling her way in the dark by memory.  She wound up in front of Jon's door. She hadn't been here. Not since the night she'd come after the battle. The night he'd turned away from her, face heavy with guilt and shame.  She stood there now uncertain. She wasn't sure what she wanted, what she could hope to gain by being here. But she was tired- so tired- of being alone in this strange world, so tired of his silence and pained looks.  She knocked at the door. Jon opened it a moment later, his face contorting.

"My queen," he said.  He didn't bow. Or smile.  The first hurt more. 

"Move," she said, shoving him backward.  He stepped back, letting her into the room.  She grabbed the back of his head and threw herself into his arms, bringing her lips to his so hard that he stumbled.  He stayed still for a second, maybe two, but then his hands were on her, around her waist, tugging at her body the way he had the first time they'd been together.  Dany felt warm, she felt right for the first time in weeks. Desire stirred in her stomach as she kissed him, feeling the soft rub of his stubble against her chin. The smell of him- the scent of snow somehow mixed with a soft hint of ash- it hit her hard this close.  He broke the kiss, his eyes so wide they rivaled the full moon.

"Dany-"

"Don't," she said.  "You told them." He didn't speak.  Of course he'd told them, the damned honorable fool.  She'd known he would. Still, a pang of worry hit her.  She brushed it away. Tonight- she couldn't think tonight.  She was so tired of sitting and thinking and waiting. "Jon, this doesn't have to change."

"You're my aunt," he said.  His eyes betrayed him, though, drifting down to her chest.  She allowed herself a wry smile.

"In this world where usurpers burn down septs of their own people, where the dead walk among us, where even brothers kill each other- is the worst thing you can think of truly sleeping with your aunt?"  He frowned, his forehead contorting into lines. Dany sighed, taking a step toward him. Their faces were inches away once more, and this time, he didn't pull away from her. "Do you want me?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Yes," he whispered, still meeting her gaze.  

There was still guilt there, maybe shame too, but Dany didn't care.  He would have to get over it. And if he didn't, she would deal with it when it happened.  For now, it didn't matter. When she kissed him again, he didn't resist. He swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed, ripping down her undergarments and climbing atop her.  She wrapped her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as he took her, their clothed bodies pressing together. As Jon hit his peak deep inside her, Dany reached hers with him, still tugging him against her.  For the first time since going north, she felt warm.

 

She slept in her own bed, the cold pulling her back into its embrace, but she didn't care.  Finally, she was free from thought. She slept well and woke feeling at least a little better.  At least until she looked outside. The world was blanketed in white. Snow was still falling too, in fluffy beams of white, falling across the bright sky in a way that was almost cheerful.  Almost. The snow might dance, the world might be bright and beautiful, but this meant their reprieve was over. Worse than that. It meant any hope of traveling to King's Landing after Cersei was dead would have to be pushed back.  Unless she wanted half her army to freeze on the journey. 

Tyrion was waiting for her outside her chamber, along with Grey Worm and Missandei.  All three of them looked grave.

"What now?" she asked, trying to keep her weariness from her voice.

"Winter seems to be upon us once more," Tyrion said, not meeting her eyes.  Daenerys frowned.

"A normal winter.  We killed the white-walkers.  The Night King-"

"Yes.  We did.  But Samwell Tarley seems to think it isn't over.  And Lady Sansa-"

"Why do they say this?" she asked brusquely.  "What reasons do they have?"

"Not reason, exactly."  He still wouldn't meet her eyes.  For a moment she wanted to slap him across his worried face and force him to spit it out already.  "Strange whispers. Strange dreams. Nothing concrete. Nothing even real. Until yesterday. My brother- well-"

"Tyrion," she said warningly.  "Speak your mind. The snow doesn't fall any slower when you dance around your words."

"It sounds mad.  It could be nothing."

"If you thought it was nothing, you wouldn't have come to me.  Out with it."

"He saw a spider.  Or thought he did. Only when he crushed it- it turned to ice."

"And this is what you're basing your fears on."

"Your grace- doesn't it all seem a bit too easy?  Defeating the whole of the army of the dead in a night?  A little too easy for Arya Stark to slip through a few dozen flanking warriors to stab their king?"

"Easy, Lord Tyrion?" she asked, heat rising through her chest and settling in her throat.  "I lost more than half of my army and you call it easy. Jorah Mormont died- I nearly lost Rhaegar- and you call it easy?"

"Think of it," he said, pressing on with a hard-headedness she both admired and hated.  "If you were leading that army, would you lead all of them at once against an enemy you didn't know?  An enemy that could, for all you know, have a battalion of dragons, or magicians that could kill whole swaths of you at once?  That leader- the Night King- he wasn't like the others. He wasn't a mindless wight, attacking anything that breathed. He was smart.  And I don't think he was the only one."

"That's an interesting theory, Tyrion," she said, raising a single eyebrow at him.  "But it's conjecture. And I have a feeling you're going to ask me to stay here based solely on a few shards of ice."

"If they return, Winterfell will fall without you.  You  _ know _ this."

"What I know," she said, the volume of her voice raising almost against her will.  "Is that Westeros is in chaos- my kingdom is in chaos. If the walkers return, people will die- well, if Cersei remains on the throne, more will die.  She will slaughter them in their homes- their beds- their septs. She will kill them because she fears what they will do to her if she does not. And if we do not unite the people before winter hits- assuming it hasn't passed- more still will die.  These are my people. I will not leave them to freeze and die in a divided Kingdom." 

"Fine," Tyrion said, rubbing his forehead.  "We need to wait until the snow stops. And Arya Stark could still succeed."

"We'll hear from Varys's informants either way.  In the meantime, we prepare to leave."

"What of supplies?  The northerners will need them if they're going to get through the winter."  Daenerys thought about it for a long moment, then realized she had no idea. And it wasn't her job to know.

"You're my Hand.  Find someone who can figure it out," she said at last, stalking past him down the hall.  He fell into step beside her, his mouth curled into a thin line. But he didn't argue. At least he didn't argue.  Grayworm walked in front of her with one of his men, his back straight and proud as ever. Two more of her men walked behind.  

"And there's the matter of your dragons.  We need to find a sustainable way to feed them."

"Then find it," she said.  "I have enough to worry about without adding problems I have no knowledge to solve."  They walked outside, into the freezing air. White snow floated around them, suspended in the air by some unseen force.

"Where are we going, your grace?" Tyrion asked patiently.  To his credit, he didn't shiver. She didn't either, carefully holding her arms at her side as she glided across the snow.

"To see my dragons.  They don't like the snow," she replied.  She glanced up. As she knew she would, she found Drogon there, circling the castle while he made mournful whining sounds.  To the northerners, he might sound threatening. To her, he sounded cold and annoyed about it. Much the same as she felt. "Rhaegal will be past the walls.  Curled up somewhere moping. Drogon will follow me. Come on." 

Tyrion frowned, but followed, struggling through the snow without outward complaint.  She felt a twinge of regret for just a moment. It had been cruel of her to require him to come with her.  Intentionally cruel because he'd tried to put off going south once more. And she had felt satisfaction before regret.  It was the cold, she thought. She had never been cruel before the cold. She caught Grayworm's arm and nodded toward the stables.  He made a wordless gesture and two unsullied scurried off, returning in moments with horses.

"I don't ride well," Tyrion said once he was firmly seated on the beast.  "These beasts- they don't like me."

"Better than wading through snow," she said, forcing up a smile.  None of this was Tyrion's fault, after all. He'd simply told her exactly what she hadn't wanted to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Part 2 on Sunday. Next week is Arya.


	9. Daenerys Part Two

They found Rhaegal where she thought they would, out in an open field with his wings curled around his body.  Jon Snow sat beside him, petting his nose and murmuring soothingly.  Daenerys's eyebrow shot up, and she glanced at Tyrion, who looked just as surprised as she was.  Together they rode over, the sounds of their horses muffled by the snow.  Dany dismounted, unable to take her eyes off the man who sat in the snow next to a dragon as calmly as a child would sit in a flowery meadow.  Something in her stomach stirred, something she'd felt once long ago, but couldn't place now.

"How did you know he'd be here?" she asked casually when she was only a few feet from him.  Jon jumped, shooting her a bashful grin.

"Seven hells, woman, you scared me." She grinned back.  At least for the moment, he seemed to have forgotten his new-found awkwardness.  He shrugged, pulling his thick fur coat further around his shoulders.  "I dunno.  I had a dream he was upset.  That I'd find him here.  So I came."

"And there he was?" she asked uncertainly.  Jon nodded, a touch of the uncomfortable expression she'd grown so used to appearing again.  She hurriedly added, "He's like a babe when it comes to the snow.  Utterly appalled by it.  The only thing he knows to do is throw a tantrum.  Your mind probably caught part of that."  His smile reappeared and she thanked the seven one by one in her mind.

"And you?"

"Well I don't like it either, but I'll try not to whine very much."  Drogon landed beside her, the wind from his wings picking up snow from the ground and flinging it all over them.  Rhaegar squawked indignantly, turning his head as though to glare at his brother.  Jon stroked his neck and he quieted, his head falling into Jon's lap.  Steam rose slowly from the dragon's back as the snow hit its warm scales and turned to vapor.  Drogon bumped his head against Dany's side, gazing at her balefully.  "They don't like to look weak in front of many," she mused.  "They trust you."

"I've been told I'm very trustworthy," Jon said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.  Tyrion cleared his throat behind them, and Jon glanced over at him.  "Lord Tyrion."

"I prefer just Tyrion these days," Tyrion said, wading through the snow to make his way to them.  "You have a way with them, Jon.  It's... uncanny.  I've only ever seen them act like that with our queen."  

"Animals like me," Jon said simply.  Tyrion had a strange look on his face, half-curiosity, half-awe.

"I see that.  Perhaps your mother had some Valyrian blood in her."  Jon's face flushed, and Dany hoped it was subtle enough that only she noticed.  

"Or maybe Rhaegal just knows I like him," she said.  Tyrion nodded thoughtfully, looking like he was about to say something else.  Then Rhaegal and Drogon shifted, their heads whipping around in unison to face south.  

Rhaegal batted his wings, sending freezing air over the three of them.  Daenerys felt her heart speed up.  She knew that look.  She squinted through the white to make out the sight of a figure running toward them.  Without further thought, she leapt onto Drogon's back, throwing a hand down to pull Tyrion up behind her.  Jon and Rhaegal were already in the air, speeding toward the figure.  She followed.

It was a man dressed in furs, looking terrified.  He sprinted toward them, glancing over his shoulder every few feet or so.  He wasn't terrified of them.  There was something worse than dragons behind him.

"Bronn!" Tyrion called.

"Thank fuck.  Someone fucking kill the things," the man screeched breathlessly.  Daenerys squinted, trying to see past the bright blinding white.  She heard Jon yell, saw Rhaegal dive forward, and she followed.  Tyrion clung to her waist so tightly she was sure to bruise, but she barely felt it.  Her blood pounded through her veins, the cold wind flew past her, she still couldn't see... But she heard them.  The inhuman screeching of them, the sounds too high-pitched to be natural.  A blaze of fire burned through the clouds of snow, and she caught her breath.

Spiders.  Huge white spiders- they must have been bigger even than Jon's direwolf- with four sets of bright blue eyes on their back.  Four of them.  She pulled back, hovering in the air as they approached.  She could hear her blood in her ears. They scuttled forward, legs blurring.  Silver fangs gleamed from their mouths.  Rhaegal blasted another wave of fire, catching two of them in the blaze.  They shrieked again, falling, legs twitching and black, but neither was dead.

"Dany!" Jon screamed.  She pulled herself out of her stupor.

"Dracarys!" she yelled, and Drogon swooped forward, sending a wall of flames at the beasts.  They scuttled backward hissing.  Steam poured from them.  Daenerys watched as Jon and Rhaegar dove.  Jon's sword connected with the beast's head with a sickening crunch.  The thing shattered into a million shards of ice that scattered across the snow, and the other spiders swarmed at Jon.  One's front legs brushed against his sword arm as he rose back into the air, his body pressed flat against Rhaegar's.  Daenerys didn't know how to use her sword well enough to be useful.  But she knew how to use her dragon.  She flew over the top of the beasts, this time angling Drogon's head just right.  

"Now," she murmured, and Drogon understood, blasting fire at the spiders, sending the two that were already damaged shattering, ice turning to steam in the air.  Rhaegar dove toward the ground again, mouth open.  His teeth gleamed over the snow as Jon leaned off his back, his sword stretched out again.  Then one of the spiders leaped.

The world slowed.  Each of the spider's legs pushed off from the slick ground at once, sending the beast pummeling through the air.  Jon was too close.  The thing was nearly ten feet in the air now, still moving, it's strange long legs skittering uselessly, like it was trying to swim through the thin winter air.  Jon raised his sword, but the beast was already on him.  It sunk its fangs into Jon's chest, pulling him off of Rhaegar with sickening ease.  Jon's face changed into a mask of shock. His blood squelched around the fangs.  Daenerys rocketed toward them, too late, too late, Jon's face pale- the spider's body impaled on his sword, sliding down it slowly as its legs still twitched.  It twitched until its body fell free of the sword.  It was ice before it hit the ground.  Jon thumped onto the snow beside its remains.

Daenerys realized she was screaming as she pulled Jon onto Drogon, yelling at the dragons to take them back to Winterfell.  She put her hands on his chest, feeling at the wounds.  They weren't deep.  But something about them- the strange white-blue cast to the wounds, how cold they were under her fingers... 

"Hold on, Jon," she whispered, stroking his curls.  He blinked at her, his lips twitching slightly like he was trying to say something.  Then his eyes closed.  She put a hand across his forehead and froze in alarm.  He was freezing.  And he was only getting colder.  The castle loomed before her, and she flew over the walls, screaming at the top of her lungs.  "Someone get Samwell Tarly!  Or get a maester!  Hurry!"  

A few men scurried off, and a crowd formed around them.  Dany pulled Jon to the ground, and Rhaegar nudged her like he was trying to push her away.  

"No," she said firmly, her voice trembling.  She felt tears rush to her eyes, but she pushed them away angrily, not letting them out.  Jon wasn't dead.  Not yet.  Rhaegar couldn't drag her from his side.  Samwell Tarly and Sansa Stark ran up, followed by what looked like half the castle.  

"What happened?" Samwell asked.  Rhaegar nudged her again, more firmly this time.  She pushed him away.  She wasn't giving up on Jon yet.  Sam knelt beside Jon.  "Why's he so cold?"

"He got bit- bit by one of those things.  Undead.  Fix him," she commanded, finally moving away to give Samwell room.  Sansa grabbed Daenerys's arm, her eyes wide.  Daenerys clutched the other woman's shoulders just to have something to hold onto. For a moment, enmity was forgotten, replaced by shared terror.

"We need to warm him up," Samwell said shakily.  "He's losing too much heat.  He needs warmth or he'll die."

"Then get warmth," she yelped.  Sansa nodded beside her.  "Now!"

Rhaegar growled, and Samwell looked up nervously.  To Daenerys's shock, the dragon leaned down, gripping the back of Tarly's heavy coat and tossing him to the side as easily as one might toss a piece of paper into the wind.  Then he snarled in earnest, his head whipping around the crowd, who hastily backed up.  Ser Brienne practically threw Sansa over her shoulder with one arm, grabbing Daenerys by the other and tugging her away.  She struggled, but Brienne's grip was too strong, easily holding her back from the dragon.  The dragon looked up at the bright snowy sky for a moment.  Then he brought his head down, expelling a breath of pure flame right at Jon.

Sansa shrieked and tried to run forward.  Brienne held her back, her blue eyes wide in horror.  The air filled with sounds of shock and terror.  But Daenerys stilled in the warrior woman's grip, her mouth half-falling open.  Rhaegar sent his blaze over the fallen man for what felt like minutes.  When he stopped, Daenerys realized it had only been seconds.  Rhaegar snorted, leaning toward Jon and bumping him with his snout anxiously.  Smoke and snow covered them both, white and gray mixing together in tendrils as they rose.  Then gradually the air cleared.  Daenerys stepped forward, not quite sure what she would find.  She took another step and drew in a sharp breath.  Jon was sitting up, naked and singed.  His clothes had burned away, as had all of the snow on the ground around him.  Most of his hair was burned away too, and dark soot clung to his skin.  But there he was.  Alive.  He patted Rhaegar, his face calm, eyes lucid and clear.  

"Jon?" she asked, half-believing he was a trick of the bright light of the day.  He didn't entirely look like Jon.  Not his face.  She wasn't used to seeing him without his glower, wasn't used to seeing him look so...  serene.  Like for once in his life he had nothing to worry about.  Her eyes drifted to his chest.  The wounds- they were still there, but they were red, the normal color of shallow cuts.  Not the blue-white they had been mere moments before.  He turned to her, his hand still on Rhaegar's snout.  He offered her a half-smile, pulling himself to his feet.  She wanted to run to him, to embrace him, but she was frozen in place.  Jon glanced around, for the first time seeming to notice the dumbstruck crowd all around him.  He looked around at them, bemused, before glancing down at himself.

"Er- does anyone have a coat?" he asked.  Dany let out a hysterical gasp that was half a laugh, half a sob.  Then she let herself go to him, to wrap her body around his.  His arms wrapped around her without hesitation.  They stood there for a long time, naked skin and heavy fur sharing heat in the snow.  The two dragons flapped their wings, keeping the watching people from them as they embraced.  The crowd didn't matter.  The cold didn't matter.  Everything could come crashing down around her because of this, her right to the throne, her people, her dragon, even.  In a few moments, she would be furious, she knew.  But right now she didn't care.  Jon Snow was alive.  And he was a dragon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya next and Ñuqir after that! I posted this one a day early because I'm gone most of tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!


	10. Arya

Arya

The first time she wore one of her faces around the Hound, he'd sworn, leapt a foot in the air, and drawn his sword all at once.  She laughed for nearly half an hour, ignoring the surly looks he shot at her.  

"It's not funny, girl," he had said.  "Only dumb cunts fuck with magic.  Leave that for the shits across the sea."  She wore four new faces the next day just to try to get another reaction from him.  But once he was past the shock of it, he didn't seem inclined to give her the satisfaction.  When he occasionally glanced at her, it was always with the same unamused expression she knew so well.  After a week or so, though, he got used to it enough to entirely ignore it.  

They stayed in a tiny room deep in the poorest section of King's Landing, the sort of place a respectable lady wouldn't be caught dead in.  Thieves inhabited many of the buildings around them, arguing amongst themselves until the Thief Lords cracked down.  Across the street was something far more interesting.  A small house with two stories inhabited by a red man and a cripple who never showed his face.  The Red Man was more interesting to her, perhaps just because of the Red Woman she'd briefly met.  

Like she'd heard all priests of R'Lhor were, he had long dark red hair, and a well-trimmed red beard.  One of his eyes was covered by a black eyepatch, but the other gleamed brightly, seeming to land on Arya every time he left the house.  The way he moved- so quickly and cautiously, but with a sense of power lurking just beneath the surface of him- he reminded her of a fox.  If he planned to hide in King's Landing for long, he'd have to do something about his stance and his appearance.  He was recognizable to even a layman.  

The burned man mostly stayed inside, only ever leaving for an hour or two.  Once a week or so, huge gatherings of men met inside that little house, leaving one by one as though they were trying to hide.  They weren't very good at hiding, from her point of view.  Arya resolved to come back and learn more about them when she was done with Cersei.

In the meantime, Arya took the face of one of the kitchen girls to get into the Red Keep.  She worked in the kitchens for a week, observing who took Cersei's food up, observing who was let into Cersei's quarters at all.  She picked her target, a pretty flighty little thing called Hana who was a lady in waiting for the queen.  That was good.  It would let her get close.  She watched Hana closely in the form of a scullery maid, learning her mannerisms, the way she spoke, even the way she pulled at her curls when she was nervous.  After another two days, Arya was ready.  

 

She bought three bottles of fine wine, grateful that Sansa had remembered to send her with money, and brought them back to the house. The Hound looked up as she entered.

"The fuck's that for?" he asked, grabbing one of the bottles and staring at it dubiously.

"Tomorrow's the day. I bought good wine. The kind Cersei would kill to get her hands on."

"Good wine- shit wine- what's the difference? Just the gold. Either one gets you drunk." He pulled the cork off with his teeth and spat it at the wall.

"One tastes less like shit, Clegane," she said, snagging the bottle from him. She sighed in satisfaction as the wine hit her throat. "Even you should be able to tell that."

"So you blew a fortune for a good taste?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "Cunt move."

"What's a fortune if you're dead?" she asked with a shrug. He snorted, taking the bottle back and taking a long drink. "What are you going to do? When I'm not here to annoy you?"

"I'm coming with you, girl." He shifted uncomfortably. "It's where my dumb fucking brother will be. With Cersei. We got one shot and we take it together."

"Fine. Hope your sword's sharp. Damned or not, I'll try to get out."

"You keep that little needle of yours ready too. Might need it to sew yourself up." She raised the bottle at him and drank heartily. They both fell asleep on the floor, two empty bottles between them.  

 

Arya dreamt she was in a forest.  Her nose was sharper than usual, and all around her pressed the smell and bodies of her pack, nearly close enough to touch.  Wolves.  She was a wolf too.  The ground was white, and each step she took sunk her into the thick layer of snow.  The trees were thin here, and the air thin.  Her pack-mates had blood on their muzzles, and as Arya licked her lips, she realized she did too.  The scent of the hunt hung heavy in the air despite her full stomach.  She kept her nose to the snow, following the barely-there scent of decay.  She wasn't sure what she would find when she found the source of it, but anticipation buzzed all around her.  She stilled for a moment and threw back her head, letting out a loud howl.  

Smoke rose in front of her, and she ran through it.  The scent led through it.  It was stronger now.  The smell of ice and death and cold, of long winters and despair.  She snarled, her head snapping back as she urged her companions forward.  It was near.  Practically before them.  She huffed in a few cold deep breaths and leaped.  Before she could see what it was she was rushing at, Arya woke with a start, face covered in sweat.  The Hound was already awake.

They dressed quickly without speaking. Arya dressed as the scullery maid and put on the girl's face.  That would attract the least amount of attention, she thought, while still gaining her access to the keep.  She glanced at Sandor, who touched the hilt of his sword in quiet confirmation. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Together they stepped through the door.

They walked through the street, a few people between them. Arya caught sight of the red man. As per usual, his one good eye had a hard gleam in it, and his beard was perfectly trimmed.  He looked more like a painting than an actual man.  He caught her eyes and gave her a slow nod. She nodded back. On sudden impulse, she spoke.

" _Valar morghulis_."

" _Valar_ _dohaeris,"_ he answered quietly, not sounding the least bit surprised. She walked on, feeling unnaturally calm. No one paid her mind. It was strange, really, no one bothering a woman alone dressed in the clothes of the red keep in the poorest section of the city. Unnatural. A chill ran through her. It wasn't natural. Someone- something in the realm of gods or men- was helping her. And she wasn't entirely sure she liked it, but she would make damned sure to use it.  

When they were only a quarter of a mile or so away, Arya slipped into an alley.  As she'd hoped he would, Sandor followed.  She shot him a grin.  Despite the situation, she'd been looking forward to this.  He caught her expression and gave a suspicious huff.

"What?"

"You can't very well go walking into the Keep looking like that.  The people know you.  You'll be dead before you get inside the gates."  

"I'll kill the cunts and get through," he said, apparently unbothered.

"No.  You'll get us both killed.  We can't kill an entire army."  She savored the moment, watching as the recognition dawned on his face.

"Not in all the Seven Hells is there a chance-"

"You have to.  C'mon.  It doesn't feel like anything.  And it'll just be for a few minutes."  He shook his head, scowling at her.

"And you didn't fucking think to mention this before now?"

"I didn't want you to have to think about it," she said sweetly.  She reached into the pouch at her side pulled out the face of a young boy, one of the stable hands.  The Hound looked at it dubiously.  Before he could stop her, she pressed it over his face, watching the transformation take place with interest.  He seemed to shrink before her eyes, taking the form of one of the stable boys.  Arya had managed to slip a mild poison into the maid's food to keep her in her bed for a few days.  The stable boy- she merely hoped they wouldn't run into him.  With as many people as there were in King's Landing, their odds were good.  The Hound gave her a look that would have been imposing on his usual face.  Now he just looked chagrined.

"This is fucking insane," he muttered, running a hand over his newly-smooth face.  "The second we're in with Cersei-"

"When you kill your brother, he'll see your face.  I promise you."  He nodded, not looking convinced.  

They made their way through the gates without issue and into the Keep.  Arya led them up two flights of stairs, down a corridor, and into an empty room.  Together they waited, watching the corridors as people bustled by, busy with their own little lives.  Finally, Arya saw who she was looking for, walking, as Arya had noticed her doing before, alone with a pitcher of wine in her hands. 

 

"Hana!" she called.   Hana froze, frowning as she turned to look for the source of the voice.  "In here, girl.  Quickly."  Hana glanced around once more, for a moment uncertain.  But years of serving Cersei trained her well, and after a moment, she ducked into the room.  Arya hit her on the back of the head with the hilt of her sword, grabbing the pitcher from the girl's hands before she collapsed to the floor.  "Help me undress her," she ordered.  The Hound gave her an uncomfortable grimace, but began tugging at the string holding her dress together.  Arya changed her face to Hana's and dressed quickly.  The Hound was uncharacteristically silent.  Arya turned to him.

"You got me this far.  You don't have to come with me for the rest.  Fuck the Mountain.  Go- I don't know.  Do something else you like.  Something besides killing."  He chuckled, and after a moment she joined him.  The thought of Sandor Clegane going off somewhere and living his life in quiet solitude- of fishing or something besides fighting... it was ridiculous.  It wasn't who he was.  He was too much like her.  She too would hate a life like that.  She'd die fighting, whenever death decided to take her.  

"If you're ready, let's go, Arya.  That bitch on the throne isn't going to kill herself."  She nodded.  Together they walked down the long stone corridor.  The day was bright and warm, and sometimes a bird would fly through the open archways, twittering at them for a moment before flying off once more.  

There wasn't any fear left in Arya.  There was nowhere for it to go.  Not with anger brought tight behind her eyes, her lips silently moving as she chanted her list in her mind over and over again.  Cersei was right at the top for what she'd done to Arya's family, for what she'd done to Sansa and Nymeria and her father.  And now she was so close.  Vengeance was so close.  All Arya had to do was laid before her in simple steps.  If she could follow them... if she could make Cersei suffer as much as the queen had made others suffer...

They reached Cersei's rooms more quickly than Arya remembered the walk taking before.  Three guards stood outside, and for a moment, Arya wondered if she should kill them now.  She decided against it.  They'd cry out.  Others would come, and worse, Cersei would be alerted.  Arya didn't want her to know what was coming.  Not until it was far too late to stop it.  Arya wanted to see that moment, the moment hope died in her eyes, the moment where terror and desperation warred in her.  She nodded at the guards, who nodded back, opening the door a few feet to let her in.  

"Who's this?" one of them asked, gesturing to the Hound.  

"My queen wanted to see him.  Something about the quality of her horseshoes- should I ask her to tell you it's alright?"  The knight shuddered and shook his head.

"Go on, then."  He glanced over the pitcher, eyes flickering approvingly back to Arya.  "You'll need more than just the one today.  She got bad news."

"What news?"

"Bloody northerners finished whatever civil war they were fighting.  Looks like they're preparing to move south.  Don't mention it.  She sent Lady Evalyn out crying already.  My advice is lots of wine."

"Thanks, Ser Alen."

"Good luck."  Arya nodded at him, then scurried into the room, the Hound right behind her, surly as ever.  She closed the door behind them, bolting it before taking in the scene.  The bolt would give her a few more moments at least.  

Her eyes flew first to Cersei.  The queen sat with two other ladies.  That was unfortunate.  Arya hadn't wanted to hurt any more innocents- not more than she had to- but if it meant getting to Cersei and still managing to get out alive, she would do it without hesitation.  She knew the ladies by sight and name- but for her purposes that would be enough.  Cersei wore a sour expression and a beautiful red and gold dress.  Her stomach pressed it out in a slight bump.  So she was pregnant after all.  Even better.  In the corner was a hulking man dressed in dark fabrics, his face covered by a large helmet.  Sandor's eyes fixed on him and didn't move away.  It seemed to Arya that every inch of his body blazed with hate.

"Who's that?" Cersei asked, not looking particularly interested.  "I told you to bring wine.  Not one of the horse boys."   Arya stayed silent, glancing at the Hound.  He looked away for just a moment and met her gaze.  His eyes were hard, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

"I got this fucker.  Take care of the bitch and we'll do the guards together."  Arya nodded, grabbing his face, pulling it off to reveal his true one.  He shot up to his typical hulking height.  One of the women screamed.  And so it began.  Arya was across the room in a second, slitting one of the ladies' throats with her silver knife, knocking the other out with the hilt of her sword.  She would have left both alive, but there wasn't time.  Cersei backed away, her eyes wide.  Her right hand fumbled in the folds of her dress.

"I have gold.  You can have whatever you want," the queen said calmly.  "Name your price and it's yours."  Arya allowed herself a savage smile, taking a slow step forward.  She brought a hand to her face and pulled her mask away.  Cersei recoiled.  "Who are you?"

"I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell," Arya said, putting needle back into her belt.  She wouldn't need it.  Cersei's face fell, and she suddenly looked afraid.

" _Anything_ you want," she repeated.  "You can have the north.  You can have all the gold in King's Landing."

"I want you," Arya said.  "You have crimes to answer for.  My mother.  Catelyn Stark.  You and your father sent men to betray and murder her-"

"I had nothing to do with that-"

"Liar."  Arya brought her knife down hard across Cersei's cheek.  The queen flinched backward, her right hand raising up with a knife of her own, but Arya expected it.  She brought the hilt of the knife down hard, grabbing Cersei's arm with her free hand.  The queen's wrist snapped with a sickening crack, and finally, Cersei cursed, falling back.  Still, she didn't scream.  She would scream yet.  The guards were already pounding at the door.  They'd break through, but not soon enough.  The Hound bellowed somewhere behind, cursing in pain, but Arya couldn't turn to look.  Cersei fell to the floor, clutching her wrist.

"Your family killed my mother.  And my brother, Robb Stark.  You killed my friends.  Tried to kill my wolf.  God knows how many others who didn't deserve to die.  I think you owe a debt to the god of death."

"Please," Cersei muttered, scrambling back toward the Mountain.  Arya chanced a glance over just in time to see the Hound's face, red and beaded with sweat, his arms taut with muscle as he brought his sword down hard toward the Mountain's chest.  The Mountain barely blocked the blow in time.  The sharp clang of metal echoed around the room.  No help for the queen there.  "Please- don't kill me-"

"Not yet."  She used a move she'd learned from Syrio Forel.  It looked like a dance.  A step to the side to throw Cersei off guard, to make her move her arms away from her belly.  Then a quick spin, a flick of her wrist and a sharp draw down.  Cersei screamed.

Arya's lips curled up as she watched Cersei struggle, desperately trying to close the hole ripped in her belly.  It was too late.  The remnants of whatever had been growing inside the queen were spilling onto the floor in a great bloody mass.  The wound... it wouldn't be enough to kill her.  Arya would let her suffer a few minutes more before she ended it.  Cersei's screams went on and on. Her hands kept grasping.  Beyond her, the Hound yelped, and Arya whirled around just in time to see the Mountain's sword disappear into Sandor Clegane's belly, ripping downward before pulling away.  

She let out a gasp of rage, her hand flying back to needle.  She barely spared a last glance at Cersei before charging, leaping past Sandor and around, onto the Mountain's back.  She stabbed needle into him over and over, hacking away at the thick muscle in his neck.  He batted at her clumsily, not seeming too bothered about his neck.  She grunted in effort, using her free hand to pull his head back by the hair.  His dead eyes stared at her balefully as she brought the blade down hard.  His body stumbled and fell to the ground.  She threw his head to the other corner, hopping lithely to the stone.  She glanced quickly at Cersei, who still lay sobbing and screaming on the floor.  Then back to the Mountain's body.  Her heart sank.  It was moving, clawing itself along the floor towards its head.

"Candle," the Hound hissed through clenched teeth.  "Burn it."   Arya didn't think.  She grabbed the wine and flung the contents over the body and the head, deftly avoiding the arms as they grabbed at her legs blindly.  The candle followed.  Arya knelt at the Hound's side, watching the Mountain flail.  His head opened its mouth and let out a long disembodied moan.  His arms and legs twitched, reaching for the ceiling.  A moment later, he was nothing but ash.  

Arya's hands grew slippery with blood as she tried in vain to staunch the wound in the Hound's stomach.  She glanced back at Cersei, biting her lip.  He let out a low chuckle.

"I'm dying, girl.  I've got an hour or two left.  If they find me here it won't go quick.  You've got a shot to cross one more name off your list."  She hesitated.  "End me and go to Cersei.  Or leave me to bleed.  But get your bitch."  The doors quaked, the wooden bar across them bending before falling back into shape.  "Go on," he said, giving her a real smile.  "Don't be a cunt."  Arya smiled back, feeling a few tears rise unbidden to her eyes.  She drew needle and without hesitation brought it down in a thin arc, slitting the Hound's throat.  His face relaxed and his mouth moved for just a moment, as though he were trying to speak.  Then his head fell back.  The door burst open with a crack.

Arya sprang to her feet, needle trailing behind her as she ran back toward Cersei.  But it was too late.  The guards poured in, surrounding her, keeping her from the queen.  Needle darted and stabbed.  Two men fell, then a third.  Sharp pain hit her cheek, her arm, her leg.  She hacked on, screaming in vain.  So close.  So.  Close- but she'd waited too long and Cersei was beyond her now.  

Three more fell.  More swords hit.  More sharp pain, then dull pain, hard across the back of her knee, driving her down, down, down.  Arya fell to her knees.  Needle dropped from her fingers.  She glanced down to see that there were only two left on her hand, dull shock rising through her.  A sword touched her throat.  Arya Stark looked up at her last attacker as her vision started to fade.  She raised a hand.  The sword slipped through her skin.  The last thing she saw was blood, her blood, falling around her in a perfect circle.  Then her brown eyes closed forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Loved her but this kind of death made sense to me... next chapter is Cersei


	11. Cersei

Cersei spent each day in a different room of the Keep, telling no one but Qyburn where she went.  He'd sewn up her barren stomach and replaced her insides in their proper spots. It had only taken a few days for her to be able to walk again, to limp gingerly around the halls, trying to hold her head high as pain stung at her with every step.  She left her quarters only at night at first, unwilling to let anyone see her as she was in the full light of day. Every corridor held assassins. Every dark corner held monsters laying in wait to take her life, the only thing she had left.  

She mourned the baby in a tired broken part of herself.  A part that she kept tucked away. The baby was just the top of the pile, the top of the memory of Jaime, the graves of her other children.  It was a grief so deep that there were days Cersei thought she'd drown in it, but mostly she was able to keep a tight lid on it. Self-preservation trumped everything else.  And if Arya Stark could change her face and sneak into Cersei's inner chambers, others could too.

"We need to expand our networks," she said to Qyburn once she'd settled into her room, wincing as she sat in the well-cushioned chair, the room barred from the inside.  There was a guard outside. There were guards outside three other rooms too. "We need to find anyone else who might have been involved in this. Anyone who might be planning something like this ever again.  And I want all of the guards vetted. More properly this time."

"What of the men that guarded you- that day.  The ones that remain-"

"I want them dead.  Publicly. I want to make an example of them.  Have Ilyn Payne sharpen his sword and prepare for an execution tomorrow."

"Yes, your grace.  Your grace?" She raised an eyebrow, waiting.  "Euron Greyjoy would like to see you." She sighed, rubbing a hand across her forehead.  She needed all of the allies she had now. And Euron, certainly, was an ally. And an easily-manipulated one.  He mourned for Jaime's child, not an inkling in his head that it hadn't been his own. And now he wanted to mourn with her.

"Send him in.  If he knows the word I spoke to him last night."  

"Your grace?"

"Elephant," she said, a ghost of a smile twitching around her lips.  Euron entered mere moments later, his eyes wide and sad.

"My queen," he said with a flamboyant bow, leaning forward to kiss her shoes.  "My heart weeps for you."

"Stand," she said, trying to force up a smile for him.  It wouldn't come. "Your heart aches for us both. And the child we have lost.  But we will kill all those behind this. And anyone who knew. And blood will water the way to salvation.  What news of the Iron Isles?"

"My niece has taken them back as we knew she would," Euron said casually.  Cersei felt a flicker of rage. His misstep had cost them nearly half of his fleet along with the Iron Isles, and here he was acting like it was nothing.  She swallowed it down. "I can take them back, but it would mean using troops from King's Landing."

"We can't afford to.  Not yet."

"My spies tell me she's mobilizing.  No doubt to meet with Dorne or the North.  We'll ambush her on her way there." Cersei nodded slowly. 

"Good."

"How are you?" he asked, a look of sickly concern sliding over his face.  Cersei hated him. She hated his deference, his sickly puppy-like affection.   She hated how clearly he loved her. She swallowed her hatred down to sit above her grief.

"I am alive.  What more do I need?  Be prepared tomorrow with your men.  Alert Strickland to have the company out.  I want them marching the streets. The people of King's Landing need to be reminded that Daenerys Targaryen is not the only power in Westeros.  I think we will have a demonstration."  

~~

The day was warm and sunny.  Beneath her dress, her wound wept and ached.  But the people wouldn't see that. The people would see her, tall and cruel, beside Ilyn Payne, Harry Strickland, and Euron Greyjoy.  The people would see her with a crown atop her head, a fine black dress draped around her body. They would see the blood of dead men as it hit her white skin.  And they would fear her. They wouldn't dare cross her again. The crowds stood below them, rowdy and active, waiting. Euron looked at her and she gave him a small nod.  Strickland's company drew their swords in a single motion as Euron raised a hand. The crowd shrank and quieted.

"There are those among you that doubt the strength of the crown.  There are those that would try to take it for their own. Today you will see what happens to them."  Two of the Golden Company's soldiers stepped forward, each carrying a headless body. One was small, in a blood-spattered green gown.  The other was huge, and the man carrying under it, though large, strained under the weight.  

Arya Stark and Sandor Cleagane's heads were already on spikes on top of the castle walls, of course.  But the bodies... Cersei thought the bodies deserved more intimate treatment. Greyjoy took Arya Stark's body and dangled in the air so the people could see.  Then he set the body on the top of the steps. The other man set the Hound down beside her. A few cheers rose up from the crowd, and Cersei felt a rush of derision.  Any spectacle, be it a body or a bride, had these dirt-crawlers cheering. 

"Bring out our guests," Euron commanded.  Ilyn Payne led the three guards forward, each with their ankles chained to each other and their hands chained in front of them, their faces gaunt and pale.  A few days in Qyburn's dungeons would do that to anyone. For them, death would likely come as a relief. "These scum tried to take the crown for themselves," he said, gesturing to the Stark girl and the Hound.  "With a whole band of men behind them. They were cut down easily." He kicked the Stark girl's body, eliciting another cheer from below them.  

"These," Euron practically yelled, gesturing to the guards.  "Betrayed their queen and their Kingdom. Traitors to the crown."  He gestured to Payne, who unchained one of the men from the others, forcing him to his knees.  The man willingly placed his head on the chopping block. "They will receive no last rites, no last words.  Their bodies will not be given to their families. They will die as the sniveling cowards they are. As will anyone else involved in a plot against the Crown.  Sir Ilyn, if you please-"  

The huge mute stepped forward, and Cersei could almost swear that she saw the corners of his lips curl up.  He lifted his sword up in a huge graceful arc, then in one long swoop, brought it down. Euron picked up the man's head, its tongue still moving against its lips, and threw it over the soldiers, down into the crowd.  Several people shrieked and moved out of the way, but a particularly savage-looking man sprang forward, gripping the head by its long hair and swinging it. He let out a cry of triumph, and the cry multiplied through the crowd, growing loud and fierce.  A string of thick blood lay suspended in the air for a long moment from the edge of the head's neck before falling to the ground in tendrils.  

"The next one," Euron said, his unobscured eye gleaming.  For just a moment, Cersei felt a twinge of affection. She hadn't seen this fierce side of Euron.  Perhaps it was a little endearing that he had cared for her dead child enough to kill the guards and throw their heads to the crowd.  The next one's head was tossed to the crowd as well, this time with more laughter and savagery, less shock. The third one was pressed to the stone, but this one wept openly, struggling against his bonds.  Ilyn raised his arm.

"Wait," Cersei said, holding up a hand.  Ilyn stopped. She stepped slowly to stand at his side, holding her hand out for his sword.  He seemed to hesitate. Euron was beside her in seconds.

"His sword is too heavy for you, M'lady.  Take mine." Cersei nodded once, curt and slow.  The cold metal slipped into her hand, and Payne backed away.  Cersei raised the sword, her arms shaking with the weight of it.  The man beneath her squirmed, shrieking unintelligibly. Cersei smiled, cruel and wide, then she brought the blade down. 

 There was a sickening thickness, then a hard stop.  She glanced down, stomach turning as she saw blood, sinew and the white glint of bone.  The man shrieked in pain. She lifted the sword again, bringing it down harder. Still, he clung to life, sobbing and shitting himself and begging.  Rage filled her. She lifted the sword, glaring down at the crowd. Then she brought the blade down, feeling it sink through hard bone, then give. The head plunked to the ground.  Euron Greyjoy lifted it, giving it a bemused sort of smile as though the head could return it. Then he threw it hard against the stone in front of him. 

It exploded into blood, brain, and bone, coating Greyjoy with matter.  He let out a breathless laugh, standing there covered in gore, for all the world a madman without care.  She watched, feeling much the same way. There was something about taking a life with your hands, something nothing else ever quite matched.  The crowd beneath them roared, and Euron's exhilarated laughter could still be heard clearly over it. She allowed herself another savage smile, then turned on her heel, her guards surrounding her as she made her way back into the keep.  

  
  


She had four more of her guards executed in the days that followed.  The guards went easily enough, but the third day after she'd killed the first batch, she got her hands on a few of the smallfolk rumored to be plotting against her.  Foreigners. Of course they were foreigners. She'd never liked the Qaartian men who walked through her city with their glazed eyes and blue lips. They always carried the appearance of suspicion.  And these two were no different. She visited them in Qyburn's dungeon where they both sat in chains, rags soaked with some mysterious liquid shoved unceremoniously into their mouths. They watched her calmly from their places on the wall.

"We found them carrying inflammatory messages through the city.  These aren't the brains of the operation. But I think they will make a nice display of where treason leads."

"Good."  She surveyed them, not bothering to veil her disgust.  "Have you gotten anything out of them?"

"We have discovered some of what they knew, your grace.  But they did not know much. They only mention the Fox."

"The Fox?"

"Perhaps a meeting place?  Or a leader? My scouts are out looking for it.  It won't take long to find out what the Fox is, I assure you.  In the meantime, I will continue to work on... these."  

"Good.  Don't be afraid to use Bolton tactics on these two.  I want the whole city to see them for what they are."  

"I will do that, your grace," Qyburn said, looking a little too happy about it.  But that was good. She needed viciousness all around her now. Anything soft- anyone pitying- would only bring violence.  

"Get what you can from them.  And find more, as many as you can, who conspire against me.  In a month we burn them all." Qyburn frowned.

"Burn them, your grace?  Don't you think-"

"I think that we have been too soft.  And I think softness promotes rebellion.  We will wear this city down until there is no more talk of the Seven or the rights of small folk.  If the Targaryen girl can use fire to bring order to her troops, we can do the same."

"As you say," Qyburn said.  She could swear there was something in his eyes she hadn't seen there before- a hint of regret, maybe, or hesitation.  She frowned. She would have to watch him more carefully. There were no allies that could not be turned, and if Qyburn turned, it would all be over.  So she would watch and wait, rebuilding herself as the Lion Queen and pushing down anything that stood in her way. Let Euron Grayjoy and the Golden Company work for her as long as they were useful.  All she had left was her crown, and she'd be damned if she would lose that before she lost her life.

  
  



	12. Jon

Jon

When all the excitement had settled down and he'd had a few days to realize what had happened, it was Jaime Lannister that first breached the subject with him.  Daenerys refused to talk about it, which was fine with him.  She stayed in his bed, and he battled his guilt by reminding himself this wasn't the worst thing he'd done where women were concerned.  He'd made vows, afterall, before Ygritte and broken them.  With Dany, it was more of a taboo than any actual crime.  That's what he told himself when the worst of the guilt came out.  Right now, she was a comfort.  He craved her body beside his when she was away, and reveled in her when she lay beside him.  So it couldn't be entirely wrong.  At least he hoped not.

Jaime had come to him early one morning, before he was even fully dressed.  He sat in his nightclothes as Ser Jaime knocked and announced himself.  And how could Jon turn him away?  It would be rude.  Still, he was weary as he ordered the man in.  Jaime entered, wearing an awkward smile.  Jon couldn't help it; he couldn't help realizing just how far Jaime had fallen since the first time he'd met him.  The man who had come to Winterfell when Jon was little more than a boy had been larger than life, a knight that looked like everything a knight was supposed to be.  In his golden armour with his flashing eyes and easy smile, the way he carried himself like he was a near god.  Jon wanted to know him.  Wanted to be him, with a hopeless consuming jealousy that bit at him until he had left for the wall.  Now here he was, grizzeled and older, his eyes dark and shadowed.  Still.  As he always had, Jaime Lannister looked like a knight.

"Ser Jaime," he said, standing awkwardly as he made sure all of his bits were covered.

"Lord Snow- are they still calling you that?" Jaime asked.  Jon frowned.

"I wouldn't want them to call me anything else.  It's what I am."

"No," Jaime said, shaking his head.  "My lord, you're much more than that."  It was strange, Jon thought, to be shown such deference from a man he once idolized.  He felt off-balance.  Uncertain.  

"Sit with me," he ordered, not sure what else to say.  Jaime sat at Jon's small table, and Jon sat across from him, unable to keep his eyes from warily shifting to Jaime every few seconds.  "What do you need?"

"Nothing," Jaime said, looking surprised.  "I wanted to talk to you."  They had one conversation, Jon remembered, before he went to the wall.  A strange, unsettling talk that left him thinking for days after.

"You want to tell me what it feels like to cut a man?" Jon asked.  There was a challenge in his voice.  He couldn't stop it.  Jaime, though, looked at his fingers.  

"I imagine you know, now, what that's like."

"Just blood and flesh and bone.  Easy.  Too easy.  Like you said."

"Too easy."  Jon stared at the table, feeling Jaime Lannister do the same.  "I think I thanked you, then.  In mockery.  I have much to thank you for now, and yet you don't demand it."

"How could I?" Jon asked, uncomfortable.  "You fought by my side during the Battle of Winterfell.  I owe you as much thanks-"

"No," Jaime said.  Jon looked at his face.  Jaime looked back, with as much sincerity as Jon had ever seen on the man.  "You let me stay.  Let me fight.  You and your sister could have turned me away- but it's more than that."  He glanced around the room.  Jon waited.  "Your father- You might not know this, but your father was a great man."

"Of course he was a great man," Jon bristled.  "And he's dead because he tried to expose Cersei and you-"

"Your real father. Rhaegar Targaryen."  Jon froze, feeling the familiar surge of panic flood him.  

"I don't know what you're talking about," he managed, swallowing hard.

"You know.  I know.  Everyone knows, since that dragon couldn't fry you.  But I should have known before that.  You- you look like him."  Jaime studied his hands again, and Jon felt his frustrated panic swirl with something else.

"What was he like?  My father.  You knew him."

"Knew him well."  Jaime sighed, slowly lifting his head to meet Jon's eyes.  "He was a good man.  The best man I ever knew.  Would have made a fine king, if he hadn't died."  Words spilled out of Jon's mouth before he could stop them. 

"My whole life- I thought he raped her.  My mother."

"Lyanna."

"Yes.  I grew up hearing the story with my brothers and sisters.  Grew up thinking Robert Baratheon was justified in all he did.  Defending my aunt."

"The world so often turns us on our heads," Jaime said, a hint of his old sarcastic smile on his lips.  Jon couldn't help but answer it.  Finally, he let himself feel it, really feel it.  Anger.  Betrayal.  Everything he'd pushed away for Sansa and Arya's sakes.  

"He lied to me.  My whole life, I thought I was his bastard, kept in the dark, a shameful badge that left his wife hating me, his true-born children superior.  He let me.  Let me join the Knight's Watch because I thought I didn't have any other option."  He clamped his lips together.  "I'm sorry, it's not your place-"

"Shut it," Jaime said, his face earnest.  "I might not know what it's like to grow up a bastard.  I can't fucking imagine.  But I knew Rhaegar Targaryen.  And I know that if he had known of you- if you'd been born before he died, he would have trained you day and night to become the best king he could have made you.  And you still wouldn't be as prepared as you are now."

"What?" Jon managed, his mouth hanging open.  

"You, a bastard, became Lord Commander of the Knight's Watch on your own merits.  You fought for the living- and you fought for your people too-"

"My family, that hardly counts-"

"You gave your life to save hundreds- maybe thousands- of wildlings.  All of whom are willing to die for you now, I might add.  That alone- a wildling dying for a kneeler?  Unheard of."

"But-" Jaime held up a hand, his tired eyes shining with fervor.

"You were brought back from the dead, Lord Snow- Aegon Targaryen- Whatever it is you want to be called.  You became the King in the North as a bastard- your people had that much faith in you.  Your father- he'll never know you.  He might never be what Ned Stark was to you, but he would have been proud.  What father wouldn't be?"

"What's your point?" Jon asked suspiciously.  

"My point is- Gods, I'm not any fucking good at this sort of thing."  Jaime glanced up at the ceiling, then back at his hands.  "Jon Snow, what you've done is- it's unheard of.  You were a bastard, for gods's sakes, when you rose from the dead and became a King.  You were nothing.  And I followed you against the dead- I'd do it again.  You-"  Jaime paused, his hands grasping at the air.  "You're Rhaegar Targaryen's son.  Not just in blood.  Truly.  You're the kind of man he should have been in the end.  I- Gods."  Jon watched, nonplussed, as Jaime fucking Lannister flushed bright red.  He paused for a long moment, seeming to collect himself.  "I would have followed that man to the Seven Hells and back again.  And I'd do the same for you.  You're a king."

"I'm not a king," Jon started, uncomfortable, but Jaime held up a hand.

"Fine.  You don't want to be king?  Fine.  But you're a leader.  And I'll follow you.  Like I followed your father.  I should have followed him then."  There was a bitter note to Jaime's voice that Jon didn't fully understand, but he nodded, still more bemused than anything else.

"If someone had told me ten years ago that Jaime Lannister would be offering to follow me to the Seven Hells-"

"Shut it," Jaime said again.  His face was noticeably red, Jon noted with amusement.  He realized maybe he didn't know much about Jaime after all.  "That's it.  That's all.  I'm going to get out of here."  He stood, and Jon grabbed his wrist.  

"Thank you.  For protecting Sansa.  I know you and Ser Brienne..."  his voice trailed off as he watched Jaime turn an even brighter shade of red.

"We do what needs to be done," he said gruffly.  "Just- You're competent, alright?  Whatever it is you decide to do- follow the Dragon Queen south or stay here and fight those huge spiders-" Jon shuddered, hand grabbing the fang-marks now healing above his chest- "Do it well, and know that there are men who would follow you."

"Thank you," Jon said again.  He watched curiously as Jaime gave him a last nod and exited the room, his back stiff and his stride long.  Jaime Lannister embarrassed.  Jaime Lannister coming to _him_ and pledging support.  The world truly was ending.

 

It didn't take long for his smile to fade.  Sansa burst into his room mere moments later, looking feverish and unhinged.  His heart sank as he saw the unopened letter in her hands.

"It's not her handwriting," Sansa said without preamble, shoving the paper into Jon's hands.  Her arms wrapped around her chest tightly, like she was trying to hide or make herself smaller.  "She's dead."

"We don't know that," Jon answered.  It was a lie.  They knew it.  Both of them did.  Dark wings, dark words.  He reached toward Sansa in an attempt to take her hand or comfort her somehow, but she stepped back, her eyes wide.  He couldn't remember his composed little sister ever looking this frazzled.  She had been more put together after escaping Ramsey.

"Jon- I just got her back.  We just got her back, and now-"

"We don't know anything yet."  The paper seemed to weigh as much as an elephant.  He balanced it gingerly between his hands, staring at it like it could burst into flames.  It didn't need to.  What was inside was worse than that.  Much worse.  Sansa didn't meet his eyes.  She sat in the same seat Jaime had vacated previously.

"Jon, what else could it be?"  He didn't know.  He stayed silent.  "Read it to me.  Please.  I want to hear it for certain."  Jon broke the seal, trying to ignore his trembling hands.  Slowly, trying to put off the inevitable, he began to read.

"' _Arya Stark's head is atop the highest tower of the Red Keep.  Her dog joins her there.'"_ He paused, swallowing hard.  His gaze drew to Sansa automatically.  She looked like she was carved of stone, her face a pure mask, nothing behind it.  He closed his eyes, giving himself a moment before continuing, "' _You all may join her whenever you like.  You need only stop hiding behind your lizards-_ " He swallowed hard, glancing nervously at Sansa, who was still blank stone.  "' _And the whores you cower behind and face me.  She died one piece at a time, as I carved the life from her.'"_ Cersei went on in graphic detail.  Jon couldn't mouth the words.  His hands shook harder.  An anger he'd never felt before coursed through him.  Before he knew quite what he was doing, he was ripping up the letter and throwing the remains to the floor.

"Cersei will die slowly," Sansa said.  All of the emotion had seeped from her, leaving her with a cold practicality that would have been terrifying an hour ago.  Now Jon nodded right along with her, his face contorted.  "And she will die screaming for her brothers."

"We let Daenerys take King's Landing," Jon agreed, his hands in fists at his sides.  "With the dragons she could-"

"No," Sansa said.  She stared at the wall, not even glancing at him.  "She's expecting that.  It's some sort of trap, with Greyjoy on the sea and the Golden Company on land.  She'll have more than that if she can send us a letter like that and sleep soundly.  We wait."

"Sansa-"

"Jon, please-" she said.  For just a second, he saw the small girl she'd been, the one that had been so cruel to him, yes, but with flashes of vulnerability.  His anger faded a degree or two as she finally stood, taking both of his hands in her own.  "There's still Winter to think of.  We know that more lurks beyond the wall than just the Night King.  There is more to come.  More that we need you to lead us in.  There's no one else."  He met her gaze, more of his anger flowing out.  He was still furious.  But his vision had cleared.  Sansa's touch could do that.  "We lost Arya.  She's gone.  Please don't send yourself and Daenerys Targaryen after her.  You two are the only chance we have to face the cold.  The only chance we have to tread Cersei beneath our feet and finally be rid of the lot of them.  Don't do something stupid now and ruin that."  

Jon couldn't speak.  He squinted his eyes shut, but all he could see were imagined images of Arya, bright and smiling the first time she saw needle, dark and dangerous as she'd become, still with a smile for him.  Her parting words she'd jokingly called him Aegon Targaryen for the gods' sake.  Those pictures... it was hard to reconcile them with the new one.  The one with Arya dead and lifeless, body limp (he couldn't bare to imagine her head separated) and eyes dull, mouth hanging open.  He'd seen so much death it wasn't hard to do.  It wasn't hard to picture his baby sister, his clear favorite of his family, dead and limp.  That was worse than anything else.  He sank to the floor, the last of his anger seeping, for now, into the wood.  His hands found his face.  And Jon, for just a few moments, let himself cry.

Sansa was waiting patiently when Jon pulled himself together and back to his feet.  Her hands found his again.

"She _will_ pay.  I promise.  She'll make a mistake and when she does, we'll bury her so deep even the gods won't find her. We only need to be smart a little while."

"Sansa," Jon said, his voice hoarse. She waited, tilting her head to the side the way that had always infuriated him when they were younger.  "You need to learn how to at least hold a sword."  She snorted.  He met her gaze.  She didn't look a thing like Arya, but just for a moment, he saw his favorite little sister in her eyes.  He snorted back.  Sansa chuckled, then stopped, throwing a hand over her mouth and looking horrified.  Jon took her hand back gently.  It was the only thing steadying him.

"She would want us to laugh.  Even when she came home- creepy and quieter- she still laughed."  Sansa nodded, a wry smile creeping onto her lips.

"Do you remember when she was little?  She couldn't have been older than six.  When she chased those chickens around the courtyard with a stick?  Every time she'd hit one feathers flew up behind her"

"Nan chased after her," Jon said with an answering grin.  "And the dogs chased after Nan."

"And when they finally caught her all she did was scream about being Visenya Targaryen and swinging the stick at everyone trying to grab her."  Sansa shook her head.  

"I think she bruised up Robb pretty bad that day.  She was always so fierce, wasn't she?"

"Never had any fear.  If she'd had fear, maybe she-"  Sansa cut off, swallowing hard.  "Jon, you know what you need to do."

"What's that?" he asked.  Retrieve Arya's body from King's Landing somehow?  Make a space for her in the crypts? Tear Cersei Lannister apart with his bare hands? 

"You need to marry Daenerys Targaryen," she said, her voice even.  Jon stared at her, dull surprise cutting through the sharp anguish.

"What?"

"I know it isn't what you want to think about right now-"

"It's not," he said firmly.  Sansa looked away.  He sighed. "You hate her."

"I don't hate her.  I don't trust her."  Sansa took a deep breath, her hands squeezing his tightly.  "But you do.  And I trust you.  Jon, the people trust you.  The north- we can be cold to strangers.  Even strangers who risk their armies and crowns to save us all from the undead."  He snorted.  "But Daenerys will make a good queen.  And you- you would make a good-"

"Sansa, how many times have I told you-"

"If you say you don't want it one more time, I'll grab Arya's stick and beat you until you're blind."  Jon blinked.  "You would make a great King.  Truly great.  The two of you together- the North and the old royal bloodline together- you could bring enough people together to flush out Cersei easily.  With less bloodshed.  More than that, we might be able to get enough support to beat down what rises in the darkness."

"You think the north would just give up its independence again-"

" _Yes_.  We need the six kingdoms' resources.  We need their men, their crops- We need trade and if we don't have it, we're weak.  Cut off from the world."

"You said-"

"I said we need a ruler we can trust.  We need someone who will respect the North, who won't trod over us because we follow the old ways.  But if you were king- everyone would follow you."  Jon closed his eyes.  It was too much.  All of it was too much.  He couldn't see anything aside from Arya's face. 

"I can't- I can't think about this right now."  Sansa squeezed his hands once more, then let go.  

"I know.  Don't.  But when thinking about Arya becomes too much, at least consider it."  Jon nodded.  They stayed for a long while together, hands clasped tightly, not speaking.  And Jon tried not to think past the day, past announcing Arya's death to the others.  But in the back of his mind, all he could picture was a face like Daenerys's, but male, male and older, eyes bright, soft smile on his lips and a lyre in his hands.  Jon clung to that as he buried the memories of his sister deep in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Ñuqir, one after will be Aeron Greyjoy


	13. Ñuqir (Loras)

"Now she is weak.  Now is the time to strike," Ñuqir hissed, each word ripping his throat.  "We take her."

"No," the One-eyed Fox said, straightening his robes.  He frowned, his eyes weary.  "She will be more guarded than ever.  We must wait for the sign."

"What sign if not this?  A child nearly killed her." Ñuqir swallowed hard, feeling like shards of glass were tearing at him.  His throat was healing, as much as it could.  He could talk for longer periods without feeling like he was dying.  But still, a full day of speaking ripped at him.  "Could have killed her, they're saying in the streets.  They say she was saved by the Lord of Light.  Or the Old Gods-"  The One-eyed Fox snorted.

"They say many things, the people who know nothing.  Cersei lives because it isn't yet her time to die.  But we bring her time.  It comes soon.  For now, my son, you must be patient."

"Mark me.  I will not be patient for much longer.  Whether your men are with me or not."  The Fox nodded, still frowning.  He looked almost sad, Ñuqir thought.  As though he were suffering a great loss.  

"You do not have long to wait.  The Kraken rises."

"Stop speaking in riddles."

"I do not.  I mean my words exactly as I speak them.  By the time the year is out, Cersei will be dead and another will sit on the throne.  Though whether you or I will live to see it, I cannot say."

"I won't be.  I will see her dead and as many other Lannisters as I can.  Then I will follow."  The One-eyed Fox shook his head.

"Stubborn cruel thing, you are.  Is this what your King would want?"

"I have no king," Ñuqir said sharply.  _Not anymore._

"No king, no god, no will to live.  Yet you might have the greatest role to play in all of this.  I will never understand the workings of those above."  

The One-eyed fox turned back to his contraption, a metal-working of strange design.  Ñuqir had no idea what it was.  He didn't care.  His flesh burned and his throat ached.  He longed for the Red Priest to let him go so he could drug himself to sleep. 

"I'm going out.  Stay here and watch for Tevon.  When he arrives, tell him the dragon's tail swings wide."  Ñuqir nodded.  He waited until he was alone, the Red Priest and his strange piece of metal gone.  Then he grabbed his liquor.

He drank a quarter of the bottle, feeling the pain begin to dull.  When he was quite sure he was alone, he swallowed two spoonfuls of milk of the poppy.  What was the point of it all?  If Cersei would be dead soon anyway, if the House of Lannister had all but fallen, why was he still here?  What revenge could he possibly hope to find?  He existed in a constant state of pain and rage and defeat.  And if he couldn't kill Cersei- if he couldn't watch her life's blood pour out of her broken body by wounds he'd caused himself- it would all have been for nothing.  He sat brooding, letting his mind slip into a stupor.  A sharp rap at the door broke it.

With shaking legs, wincing with every step, he walked to the door and pulled back the eye-slot.

"My uncle's cow's gone lame," a lilting voice said, heavy with accent.  Ñuqir pulled the door open and let Tevon in.  He didn't like Tevon.  The man was too foreign- too strange to be likable to anyone, but for Ñuqir, it went beyond that.  Ñuqir hated him for the way his eyes lingered, his fascination with Ñuqir's skin, with his smug little smirk he wore without fail.  Ñuqir hated that knowing glance, the one men too brave for their own good had given him and Renly when they were a little too near one another.  He hated the tint of blue that always stained the man's lips.  But the Fox wanted him here.  So Ñuqir glowered, but he let the man in.  "What news?"

"The dragon's tail swings wide," Ñuqir said hoarsely.  He'd spoken too much today.  His lungs and throat ached, and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.  Tevon nodded, still smirking.

"This it does," he said in his heavily accented voice.  His breath smelled of rotting flesh and musting earth.  Ñuqir felt a familiar flash of rage rise in him.  It didn't make sense, not now, not over this, but he was furious.

"What the fuck would you know about it?"  Tevon didn't seem bothered.  He took a seat at the long table.  Ñuqir hesitated for a long moment, then sat across from him.

"This one had seen many things."

"In the flames?" Ñuqir asked with a snort.  Tevon shook his head.

"Your fox's ways are not this one's ways.  I see things with this."  Tevon pulled out a flask and shook it.  Ñuqir heard thick liquid rolling around inside.  "You could see,  _zaltan mēre_."

"Why should I want to see?"  The anger faded.  Pain was rising within him again as the effects of the liquor began to fade.  He wondered if whatever was in the Qartheen's flask killed pain.

"This one's master believes you are to play a part in the future.  But shade of the evening sometimes shows what has happened.  Sometimes what will be.  Often what never will."

"What's the point?" he asked, half-ready to tell Tevon to fuck back off to whatever hole he crawled out of and stay there.  Tevon merely gave him a half-smile.

"It takes one from the now."

"I must stay in the now."  Either the pain of now or asleep.  Anything in between was dangerous.  Still, he eyed the bottle, curious despite himself.  Tevon's smile grew wider.

"Ñuqir you call yourself.  Ashes.   _Ōrbar_ would suit you better."  Ñuqir stayed silent.  Like all children of highborn families, he'd learned High Valyrian as a child.  But his wasn't good.  And he didn't want to admit to the strange priest that he didn't know.  Tevon smirked, eyes glinting with malice.  "Smoke.  Ash burns then falls useless.  Smoke chokes all around it as it rises."

"I never claimed to be useful," Ñuqir said, scowling.  

"You have  _gevie pryjagon_ _._.. beautiful destruction in you.  You will do more before you fade."  The man unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Ñuqir.  Ñuqir stared at it dubiously. It smelled like rotting corpses and something sickly sweet- cinnamon.

"No.  Thank you.  I have to keep a clear head."

"Ah yes.  This thing- it starts tomorrow.  You know this?"

"Of course," Ñuqir lied.  "You should go."  His throat hurt.  His mind hurt.  All he wanted was to drink milk of the poppy and go to sleep, where at least the pain was, if not gone, less.  But he couldn't not now.  He let Tevon out, watching the strange priest walk away.  Where was he going?  What sort of messages was he passing on?  To who?  What sort of men did the Fox have behind him that didn't come to the house to gawk at burned men?  Were they better or worse than the ones that did?  He poured himself a glass of wine, neglecting the milk of the poppy.  He sat at the table, sipping it slowly.  It was two hours before the Red Fox returned.

"You're still conscious," the man remarked with barely-veiled disdain.  "What's the occasion?"

"We fight tomorrow, I hear.  I thought I'd best prepare."  The Fox set down the bag and raised an eyebrow slowly.

" _You_ don't fight tomorrow.  You stay here and rest."  The Fox looked him over.  "And you won't fight at all if you insist on suffering.  You'll stay here and mope or collapse on the way to the battle."

"I fight," Ñuqir said, narrowing his eyes.  "You did not tell me.  Why not?"

"You know what you need to know.  You never seemed to mind before."

"I'm not just some prop you can hold up to rile the people.  You know why I'm here.  I fight better than half your men put together, even like this.  Let me go."  The Fox gave him a disappointed look and sat across from him.  

"I thought you were smarter than that, boy."

"Don't call me boy-"

"Then don't act like a child whose favorite toy was taken.  Tomorrow isn't when we get Cersei.  Tomorrow she'll have the entire Golden Company around her.  It would be suicide."  Ñuqir frowned, regretting it almost immediately as his entire face burned.

"Then what-"

"Our men don't know that."  Ñuqir thought about it, but shrugged, still unsure.  "We send some of them in.  They protest, rile up the crowds, get themselves killed.  How many more will be shaken from their apathy?  How many more will seek someone who can tear her apart?  We aren't large enough yet.  But after tomorrow, we will grow.  With every injustice the so-called Queen commits, more are torn from their slumbers.  Forced to accept that this touches the smallfolk's lives too.  Not just the nobles.  We gather more.  And we will fight."  The Fox gave him a speculative look.  "And if you get yourself together, you will fight with us.  Lead, even.  But not as you are now.  I won't allow it."  

With that he strode from the room, not giving Ñuqir a second glance.  Ñuqir glowered, watching the man go.  He trudged to his own room, each step aching.  He wasn't used to staying awake for so long.  Wasn't used to walking as much as he had.  He nearly collapsed onto his bed, but something strange caught his eye.  A vial, filled with a dark blue liquid that swirled as though swayed by some unseen wind.  He frowned and approached it cautiously.  There was a piece of parchment beside it with hastily scrawled letters.

_Zaltan Mēre,_ _Even the willing blind long to see.  See, then find me._

 There was no note, but why would there have to be?  He knew exactly who it was from.  Tevon.  The strange Qaartian with the blue lips and sunken eyes.  The one that Ñuqir took instantly for a sycophant and a sly man who thought he was far smarter than he was.  Drinking this would play straight into the odd man's hands.  But what did it matter?  He wasn't supposed to care.  He didn't care.  His role was to be the broken thing, to be looked at as a miracle to keep lesser men in line.  He didn't have to stay sharp.  

He shrugged.  He would drink and then sleep, and let the pain grab him once more in the morning.  He grabbed the vial and uncorked it with one hand.  For a moment, he stared into the hazy blue.  It seemed to twinkle knowingly at him, staring back.  He closed his eyes.  Before he really knew what he was doing, he held the vial to his lips and poured the contents down his throat.  The taste was strange.  It seemed to change on his tongue between a hundred separate tastes.  It made his head feel fuzzy and warm, like wine but with a hint of something darker, something he couldn't quite grasp just beneath the surface.  Rotten and dark things.  

For a few moments, Ñuqir merely felt that he was floating.  He stayed seated on the edge of the bed, not trusting himself to move.  He could fall and float away, float away so far that he would never get back to kill Cersei in time.  Here, he could cling to the blanket, should worst come to worst. The world slowly rocked around him, lulling him into a stupor.  Ñuqir didn't remember falling asleep.  But he must have.  Because when he opened his eyes, he was whole.

 

His skin was pale, gold hairs standing out against his arms in the dim light of the setting sun.  Nothing hurt.  He felt warm and calm.  He touched his face and found it still there, features not burned down to muscle and sticky raw tissue.  He touched his lips.  Soft.  And he was standing, both of his legs strong, easily holding him up.  The air smelled like sunshine and smoke.  Before Loras turned, he knew what he would find.  He wasn't disappointed.

"Hello, Loras," Renly said.  His huge brown eyes were sad, the way they'd always been in Loras's dreams after Renly had died.

"Hello, my King," Loras said automatically.  His anger was still there.  But it was further from him now.  Renly cut through it.  

"You're far from your world."

"Am I in yours?"

"No.  We're between."  Loras looked at Renly, and suddenly felt exhausted.  He was tired of living in constant pain, constant anger, constant sorrow.  He was tired of being alive.  Tired of being alone.  

"Are you here to take me with you?"  Renly gave him a small smile.

"No.  I'm here to show you what you are supposed to see."  Loras nodded slowly.

"But you're here.  You're- you?"  Renly stepped forward, his hands coming to rest on Loras's shoulders.  They locked eyes, Loras falling deep into Renly's older wiser ones.  He wondered if death had made the king wiser or if he'd just forgotten how intelligent Renly had always looked.  Either way, it was Renly.  Not his imagination's pale imitation or a fever dream.  Renly.  His love.  His king.  Loras fell against him without even thinking about it.  Renly's arms wrapped around him, warm and comforting.  He felt like the sun.  Loras could have sobbed with relief.  He didn't.  Instead he let Renly gently extricate himself from the embrace after a few moments, instead taking Loras's right hand.

"I hate seeing you how you've been," Renly said, and Loras felt a sharp stab of pain.  

"I'm sorry."

"I hate seeing you up there alone.  That look in your eyes- I hate what they've done to you, Loras.  I wish it was your time.  I wish you could come back with me.  But you have things to do."

"Will you show me what things?"  Ñuqir knew better than to protest and waste the precious moments they had together.  If Renly wanted to show him some strange worlds that he was supposed to rule- some fantasy that Renly had- or that Loras might once have had, then he would follow.  If it meant Renly would stay, he would follow.

"I do not know them.  They go beyond Cersei, and I don't know how far.  But I can show you some things."  Loras shouldn't care.  He knew he shouldn't.  Not after everything.  He didn't give a damn about some cosmic plan or higher purpose.  Even now, seeing this figment of his mind, if that's what Renly was, he didn't believe in some afterlife where he'd ever truly be with his king again.  But if playing along meant he could have even a few moments more with Renly, even if Renly wasn't real, he'd do it.  A few moments more in the light.  Then he could face the darkness again.

"Alright."  

Renly led Loras through a door that hadn't been there moments ago.  On the other side was the Iron Throne.  Someone sat atop it, a blurry, shadowed figure that Loras couldn't make out.  It could have been a woman or a shorter man, but their face, any distinguishing feature the person might have had, even as they approached, was blurred and shadowed by a strange blue haze.  Loras squinted, trying to make them out, but he gave up.  Instead he focused on the figure beside the throne, at the right hand of the Ruler.  His eyes widened.

"That's-"

"You.  It could be."  Loras took in a shaky breath.

"No.  I won't."

"That's your choice.  This is what could be."  Loras watched.  The man beside the throne- it wasn't the beautiful arrogant young youth Loras had been.  But it wasn't the broken, skinless man he was now either.  The man beside the throne was scarred, true, and he looked older, wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and gray tinging through his fine blond locks.  His face was serious, but it wasn't unhappy.  It was focused.  And he stood in gold behind the king, his hand on his sword, watchful, purposeful.  Loras couldn't take his eyes away.  He couldn't reconcile that man with who he was.  Renly led him away, and Loras craned his head, watching the man beside the throne as they walked past.  

The world faded into blue smoke.  All that remained was Renly's hand, steady and cool in his own.  When the ashes cleared, they were in a world of pure white.  The world was frozen over and the snow was deep enough to cover the roofs of houses.  Loras wasn't cold, though.  He was above. From his vantage point, he could see the outline of a huge castle.  The stones were all covered in snow and the walls were white, but still, it stood imposing, gates closed to the world.  He squinted through the snow, catching flashes of blue that disappeared so quickly he thought at first he'd imagined them.  But they kept coming.  He focused, holding a hand out in front of him and pushing with his mind.  The wind stilled.  He drew in a sharp breath.

The blue came from figures in the snow, hundreds of figures in the shape of men.  But they were not men.  They were white, made of ice like in the old legends, and their eyes shimmered with an unearthly blue light.  They stayed close together as they marched on, their hands on the hilts of their swords.  Then something strange happened.  The one in front- the obvious leader- paused.  His long white hair, thin as spiderwebs, swayed around his head as though he were underwater.  The wrinkles in his face glimmered without any hint of the sun.  His hand clenched tightly around his sword.  Slowly, he turned his head until he was staring directly at Loras.  And perhaps it was because he was in a fevered spirit-fueled dream, perhaps it was because this was his vision, but the White Walker met Loras's eyes.  And the corners of his lips lifted up into a horrible facsimile of a smile.

Loras shouted in surprise and jolted back.  The world tore apart at the corners and dissolved again into pure blue.  He clutched Renly's hand tightly, his heart still beating hard.  

"What was that?" Loras asked.

"What might be," Renly said simply.  "If you stay in this world, you may see it.  You may be able to help stand against it.  If you do not..."

"I don't care," Loras said, flipping his mop of hair from his eyes.  He'd forgotten the power in that move, the indifference of it.  Unbidden, one of his hands ran through his curls, feeling the softness as they gave way to his fingers.  He felt rather than saw Renly's soft smile.  Exasperated, of course.  As always.  That had been the best part of the gesture, Renly's reaction to it.  He had to stop himself from smiling back.  "Lead on if there is more to show."

Renly looked deep into Loras's eyes for just a moment.  Then he led them on through the blue.  Everything faded until the blue became Storm's End.  They were outside alone, the spot they'd found when they were hardly more than teenagers.  The one where even Renly's guards gave them privacy.  And before them, young Loras lay, his head in Renly's lap, his eyes closed, one hand twirling its way through his own curls.  And his young king looked down at him with so much affection that Loras- the real one, he reminded himself- felt tears well up in his eyes.  Young Loras opened his eyes, giving Renly an easy smirk.  Loras remembered.  Renly had loved him long before Loras realized he felt the same.  And he knew the king's feelings, teased him for it with easy smiles and tentative touches.

He watched his younger self pick a flower from the ground and wave it beneath Renly's nose for a moment before tucking it into his curls.  Young Renly stroked young Loras' hair, shaking his head fondly.  

"Look at you.  They'll call you the Knight of Flowers."  He watched himself frown, thinking about it.

"Maybe they will.  Maybe I'll win great tournaments and battles alike in your name and give a flower to the prettiest I see before I fight."

"The prettiest you see?  Gods, I hope you don't walk past any mirrors or you'll get stuck staring at your own reflection."  Young Loras gave him a real smile then, settling back into Renly's lap.  Loras wiped a tear from his face.  It was looking in on another life.  Someone else's life.  His Renly squeezed his hand tightly.  

"I can't promise you'll be happy if you stay.  But I can promise there's a chance of it.  And that chance- look at yourself.  Wouldn't that chance be worth it?" the older dead Renly asked him.

"Renly- don't you want me to come to you?" Loras felt his heart catching in his chest. Maybe Renly didn't. Maybe Renly wouldn't be waiting for him, that's why he wanted Loras to linger as long as possible. Maybe this was his way of saying goodbye. "You don't- you don't miss me?" His Renly smiled sadly, letting go of Loras's hand.  Loras felt the loss like a knife in his chest.

"My love, I want nothing more than to have you beside me. Nothing but for you to live." Loras stared at him, eyes hard. "You couldn't understand. Living- even living in agony- is the most precious thing there is in this world. What's beyond is pale and strange. As long as you can live, you should live, Loras. You should try to find some peace in it. Live as long as you can. Then come back to my side and we'll be together.  Whatever is left."

Loras couldn't answer.  He just stepped forward, his arms wrapping around Renly. Renly pulled Loras into his chest, a hand tangling in Loras's curls, tugging them gently.  The gesture was so familiar- so gods damned strange after all this time- that tears welled in his eyes.  When they fell, they didn't hurt his skin.  They warmed him and fell onto Renly's chest.  He closed his eyes. 

When he woke alone in his bed what felt like seconds later, he could still smell Renly on his skin, still feel his warm embrace.  In his mouth was the taste of rotten death and in his mind the strange sights of the future and the past.  Every inch of his skin ached, more painful than before. But still, he felt like he had been touched by the sun.

 


	14. Aeron

Aeron 

He lost all sense of time.  His muscles ached and burned.  His feet grew swollen once more, his wrists bore deep red marks that never healed from the shackles holding him to the wall.  He had been alone in the dungeon for some time now.  He wasn't sure where the other priests were, if they were even still alive.  Euron hadn't bled him in days.  Euron hadn't visited in days, in fact.  

Every other or so day (It was impossible to tell time in the dark belly of the ship, but Aeron judged it based on when he could slip into a few moments of tormented sleep), a mute would come and press a sponge full of water to his lips.  Aeron sucked at it hungrily until the mute pulled it back.  Then Aeron would talk at him as he walked away.  He couldn't help himself. The loneliness for days on end- the delirium that came with dehydration and hunger- he just wanted to talk.  Aeron screamed curses.  He begged and pleaded for death, for release, for a word.  But the mute merely ignored him and walked out.  He sobbed dryly some nights, no tears escaping his eyes.  By the time Euron finally came, Aeron was near incoherent.

The door opened softly, letting in a few rays of light that made Aeron squint.  Heavy footfalls reached his ears.  He opened his mouth, and all that escaped was a hoarse moan.

"Hello, baby brother," Euron said softly.  A cup pressed to his lips and Aeron drank desperately,  unsure when he would next be offered water.  The liquid soothed his throat, and his chest heaved with sobs of relief.  Euron's words were hard to understand.  Coming from far away.  Had it been so long since he'd heard language that he'd forgotten what the words meant?  Euron tugged the cup back quickly.  "Too much at once and you won't keep it down."

"Euron," Aeron whispered.  Euron's good eye gleamed in the darkness like it had a light all of its own.  "Euron, please-"

"What is it?" Euron asked, voice velvet soft.  Aeron gulped.  The world was fuzzy around the edges.  Words slipped from his mouth without permission.

"Please- end it- Euron, I'm begging you-"

"Pray to me, _valonqar,"_ Euron whispered.  Aeron couldn't stop himself.

"Please end this.  Euron- you're the only thing real here."  He swallowed hard, forcing the words through his aching mouth.  "More real than me.  More real than the mutes.  More real than the Drowned God.  More a god to me now- Only you can end this- please, kill me, Euron, please-"  Euron's lips curled up into a slow, cruel smile.  His right hand reached up and cupped Aeron's chin through his beard.  Aeron closed his eyes.  Even a touch like that right now felt like heaven.  The only heaven he would see.  Even if it was real.  He watched as Euron's left hand slowly crept to his belt.  His heart leapt, showing a hint of enthusiasm for the first time in days as Euron slowly pulled a silver knife from its sheath.  He slid it up Aeron's chest, pausing and pressing the sharp edge through Aeron's thick beard until he felt it hit his flesh.  He sighed in relief, tilting his head up to expose more of his neck. Euron paused.

"Please, Euron, please," he murmured, and it was a prayer. A prayer to the only god he had known for over a year.  Euron released his face and gripped Aeron's tangled beard, tugging it to the side until Aeron's neck was full exposed.  Aeron closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them.  He would watch his last moments.  Euron stared at him with his one good dark eye, the same fascinated smile he'd worn every day of his life.  Aeron met his gaze calmly, tilting his head back even more until most of his neck was exposed.  He watched as Euron pulled the knife away, body tensing and poised to strike.  All he felt was relief as the knife swept toward him.  He felt lighter as it hit him.  No pain.  At least no more pain.  His head felt... much lighter.  He looked down.

Euron held his beard, the long straggled locks, crusted with sea salt, sweat, and whatever had attached to it in his time with Euron.  Aeron hadn't cut it.  Not since the drowned god had saved him after Balon's rebellion.  He should feel betrayed.  He should feel empty.  He just felt more clouded and confused.  He glanced up and met Euron's even gaze.

"I promised you I would end your suffering," Euron said softly.  He knelt at Aeron's feet, something metal clinking against the shackles.  Aeron felt the metal slip from one of his ankles, then the other.  Then Euron stood, brushing his legs off.  He leaned forward, his chest pressing into Aeron's.  Aeron shivered at the sudden warmth.  It was almost burning hot.  Aeron's beard was on the ground, filthy, long, and hateful.  Euron's warm hands gripped one of his wrists around the shackle.  He fumbled with it, and suddenly, the pressure around Aeron's wrist was gone.  Entirely gone.  His arm fell instantly, lacking the strength to hold itself up.  He cried out in agony as his arm fell, the change in a position almost unbearably painful.  Tears he couldn't afford to lose dripped down his cheeks.  Moments later, he cried out again as his other arm fell, freed.  He fell forward, into Euron's arms.

"And end it I will."

"I thought- why won't you kill me?" Aeron asked, his tongue slow and thick.  "You said-"

"Pain, brother mine, comes during transformation.  I will end your suffering.  I will elevate you to more than you ever dreamt you could be.  Your transformation is nearly over.  The pain is nearly past.  I'm your god now, am I not?"  Aeron nodded wearily.  He felt Euron's knife brush the back of his neck and wondered if his brother had only meant to set him at ease before killing him.  But Euron's knife again avoided his skin.  His head fell back a little, light and free.  His hair, he knew, had followed his beard.  It lay on the floor, same as his beard, though he couldn't see it, graying and salted and stiff.  

Euron half-dragged, half-carried him to the ladder.  The hands of mutes lifted him up, and he couldn't stifle his cries of pain.  He closed his eyes tightly, but still, the orange blinding light on the other side of the door pierced him, needles through each of his eyelids, atop the pain in his arms.  He was too weak to stand, nearly too weak to keep his head lifted, entirely too weak to do anything beside moan and be passed from the mutes back to Euron.  Euron carried him across the deck and into a new room, back into blessed darkness once more.  Before he knew what was happening, his naked body was being lowered into a basin of warm water.  He hissed in pain as the water bit into each of his open sores, hitting hard on the deep cuts along his arms, and Euron murmured soothingly beside him.

"A bit more pain tonight.  Then I'll give you something to take it away.  Tomorrow, you will come and watch what I have begun.  After that, you will heal.  I will need you well, my prophet."  Aeron closed his eyes, the sting fading as the warm water soothed him.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm.  Not in months.  He half-wanted to drink the bath-water, but Euron pressed a cup to his lips again, giving him a few more sips of water.  His stomach roiled and protested, but his mouth sang at the sweet taste.  Euron brushed his hands through Aeron's hair, moving water through the shorn remains.  Human touch- it felt alien.  It felt like too much.  But the last thing he wanted was for Euron to stop.  And Euron didn't, for what felt like hours.  By the time Euron finally lifted him from the tub and wrapped his emaciated body in blankets, the water was cool and nearly black from the filth of him.  He closed his eyes again. 

"When will you kill me?" he asked.  Euron laughed softly.

"Not tonight, brother.  Drink."  Aeron opened his mouth obediently, feeling a sickly sweet liquid slip down his throat.  He could almost feel it numbing him, taking him to a blessed place beyond all of his aches and pains.  His last thought before he lost consciousness was a wonder- a wonder asking if he was already dead.

He woke on a bed, a real bed, with blankets surrounding him.  He felt warm.  It took nearly thirty seconds before all of the pain hit at once.  He bit back a scream.  His arms... his arms felt as though they'd been chopped off at the shoulder.  They felt like someone was pushing needles into each of his pores at once.  He tried to lift them but found he couldn't move them more than an inch or so without the agony tripling.  This time he did let out a strangled scream.  Euron was at his side in seconds, his lips twitching up ever so slightly into a soft smile.  Aeron gazed up at him.

"Feels good, doesn't it?  New pain.  Healing pain."  It was sick.  It was awful.  But he was right.  Aeron glanced away.  "I think you should feel it for a while.  Transformation doesn't work if you can't feel it.  And I want you to have a clear head today."

"Why?" Aeron asked, more out of the chance to speak to another human than actual curiosity.  

"I want you to see something."

 

Euron spoon-fed him soup and bathed him again before they left.  When he slipped the comfortable clothes onto Aeron's ragged body, Aeron screamed again.  Lifting his arms was even worse than keeping them still.  Euron's hands were gentle.  They were always gentle.  That was his danger.  His force seemed gentle like if you really tried you could escape from it.  Like you shouldn't be trying to escape from it, because Sauron Salt-Tongue knew there were worse things than gentle force.  Aeron didn't resist now.  Once he had been saved by the Drowned God.  Now he had been saved by Euron, his soul torn from the one and taken by the other, rending his body apart in the process.  All gods were cruel.  All gods were dark.

It felt strange, Aeron thought, to be out in the sunshine again.  His eyes still burned at first, but Euron brought a strange man with a shaved head and dark blue lips to his side in the carriage.  The man poured a few drops of liquid into his eyes and murmured something that could have been a curse or a prayer.  And then Aeron found that he could keep his eyes open with only minimal pain.  And so they stayed open, barely blinking as he peered through the curtained window, watching the streets of a city he'd only seen the dungeon of.  After so long in a dank windowless hole, all the light and life around him seemed foreign.  Strange how both times he'd ended up at King's Landing, he'd started out a prisoner.  

One of Euron's men carried him into a dim, dirty little room on the top floor of a brothel.  They'd gone in separately, Euron disappearing with a pretty little thing into a room, Aeron and the burly man following a plump girl into a different one.  The plump girl shut the doors, giving them a nod before slipping through a side door.  Euron came through at the same time, helping his mute arrange Aeron onto a cushioned chair by the window.  Sitting still hurt.  Everything still hurt, and his feet were purple and bruised, his arms still searing with pain.  It was more pain than he'd felt shackled to the wall.  Far more, it seemed.  So why did he feel so alive?

"This place is yours," Aeron said.  It wasn't a question.  Euron was too smart to take them somewhere he didn't have complete control.

"I thought I'd invest in one of King's Landing's finest establishments.  You should try the merchandise."  Euron's gaze flickered over Aeron's body,  smirking with his strange mirthful good eye.  "They have boys too.  Probably not ones that could match me in my prime, though."  Aeron grimaced but didn't say anything.  It was a god's right to take what he wanted.  "Once you've recovered enough, that is.  For now, look at the view."  Aeron looked.  They were high up and close to the Red Keep.  Close enough that he could see the huge crowd gathered at the city steps.  Close enough that he could make out a huge figure and the gleam of a silver blade above a stone.  Behind them stood a figure in a red dress.

"Your queen?" Aeron asked.

"Hardly mine," Euron said, his eye glinting mischievously.  "She's the people's queen, brother."

"What's this?"

"More executions.  Our dear queen doesn't feel safe after Arya Stark killed her child."

"Arya Stark- Eddard Stark's girl?"  Euron's smirk widened.

"You have been out of the game for a while, haven't you?  If you spent less time drinking saltwater and more time paying attention to the world, you would know things."  Aeron nodded, his eyes drawn back to the crowd.

"Why are we here?"

"You, brother dearest, are to be my prophet.  You're my priest now.  You're here to witness Cersei Lannister kill her own people."  Aeron nodded slowly.  

The gleam of metal fell onto the stone.  As though one body, the crowd surged forward.  Aeron leaned as though moving with them, watching in fascination as they charged toward the queen.  The din of them was loud enough to be heard from where he sat, a loud cry that could have come from a giant it was so unified.  A wall of Gold seemed to appear from nowhere, meeting the crowd and pushing them back.  The crowd- they were the smallfolk of King's Landing.  They didn't have the sort of weapons they would need to stand a chance against Cersei's guards, but there they were, nonetheless, surging like a tidal wave toward her.  

"I've never seen small folk do that," he said, wondering.  He turned to look at Euron, wincing as he remembered the pain.  "How-"

"Our dear queen made the mistake of burning down a sept.  Religion keeps the small folk happy. It gives them something to do.  She took their holy men and their hope.  They struggle to feed their children, and if they don't yet, they know they soon will.  Winter is coming.  It will reach King's Landing too before too long.  And now she executes them like they're treasonous lords.  They're desperate.  And easily swayed."

"Did you...?" Aeron asked, awed.  Euron gave him an indecipherable smile.

"My goals are higher than the Iron Throne."  He didn't say no, Aeron realized.  He turned back to the window.  There were more soldiers now, pressing the crowds backward.  The anger was infused with pain, he heard, but still, they pushed forward.  For what seemed like hours.  Then slowly, the crowd dispersed, carried away by the soldiers or little by little escaping into the streets.  The square emptied.  

"Cersei won't wonder why you weren't there?" he asked, curious.  "She won't know you had something to do with it?"

"Aeron, I never said I had something to do with it," Euron said, eye dancing.  "The queen trusts me.  I'm one of the few she trusts.  She thinks I'm too stupid to be involved in any sort of plot on her life.  So I escape to my ship sometimes to lead my men.  Or I run off to a whorehouse to whet my appetite.  And she doesn't bother having me followed."  He sighed, shaking his head.  "Poor Cersei has so much else on her mind.  It's good that she does not worry about me on top of it all."  

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask.  He held it out to Aeron, who tried to raise an arm without thinking.  He howled in pain as his muscles protested weakly, his arm falling back to his lap.  Euron's lips twisted but he held the flask up to Aeron's lips and tipped the contents into his mouth.  Aeron swallowed, feeling blessed relief within moments.  He groaned, his eyes sliding closed as he leaned back in the chair.  The last thing he was aware of was a cool hand on his forehead brushing the short strands remaining back and the smell of corpses and cinnamon burning his nose.  He fell asleep smiling.

 


	15. Tyrion

Tyrion

Bronn had taken to sleeping on the floor in Tyrion's room.  Tyrion wasn't really sure why, and it was beginning to grow irritating.  Ever since the sell-sword had arrived at Winterfell with the news that Cersei wanted him to kill Jaime and Tyrion, Bronn had been acting strange.  Protective.  At first, it had been endearing, seeing Bronn actually care about something.  And it was flattering that that something was him and to a lesser extent Jaime.  But Bronn followed him around like a nervous cat, always keeping an eye over his shoulder like assassins would jump from the snowy bushes and stick Tyrion with knives in the middle of the day.  And it made Tyrion nervous.  He kicked Bronn awake, ignoring the curses that followed him around the room as Bronn blearily brought himself to his feet.  

"All the time in the fookin' world snowed into the castle like this and you choose to wake me up in the middle of the night," he grumbled.

"You know, if you slept in your own room, I wouldn't wake you up at all," Tyrion said mildly.  "People will start to think we're lovers.  And you don't want to get a reputation for fucking dwarves."

"Hear that's lucky," Bronn said, raising an eyebrow.  "Why haven't we tried it?"

"Clean that up," Tyrion groaned, gesturing to the clothes strewn all over the floor.  "If you're going to insist on being here, you need somewhere to keep your things.  Death by loose shoe isn't a way I even remotely want to go out."

"Wine," Bronn groaned, throwing the remains of his clothes into the corner.  Tyrion rolled his eyes, tossing the wineskin across the room.  "So what was so important it couldn't wait another hour?  You lose your cock?"

"No, Bronn, I didn't lose my cock," Tyrion said, rubbing at his forehead.  "Gods, you're insufferable.  I just wanted to run something by you."

"Like I said, at all-fuck nothing in the morning.  It couldn't wait?"

"I was afraid I'd forget," Tyrion admitted.  "My sister- she's not stupid.  She knows we were friends- Jaime too.  Of all the sell-swords in the seven kingdoms, why would she send you?"

" _That's_ what you woke me up for?  Gods-" Bronn took a long swig from the flask, then made a face.  "That's not wine."

"Fine Northern whiskey," Tyrion said.  "But I'm serious.  Why send you?  She had to know it wouldn't work.  It's idiotic.  That's not Cersei.  Cruel, spiteful, short-sighted, alright, but this is the woman that successfully blew up the Sept of Baelor with all her enemies inside it.  She's _not_  stupid.  So there's got to be a reason."

"Fine?  Tastes like shit," Bronn said, taking another long swig.  "She wanted to make it personal.  Make you both suffer as you died?"

"No.  Like I said, she's too smart for that.  She wanted to put us on our guard.  She knew this wouldn't work, and she knew we would know it wouldn't work.  What's the point of it?"

"Why's there got to be a point of it?  She knows I like gold.  Promised me half the gold in her kingdom for your heads.  She probably thought I'd have a go."

"Bronn, my sweet loyal friend," Tyrion said, taking a long drink from the wineskin as it was thrown back to him.  "Never get into politics.  It wouldn't suit you."

"Don't have to tell me twice."  Bronn sat at the foot of Tyrion's bed, glancing at him speculatively.  "So why do you think she sent me, then?"

"I don't know," Tyrion said, letting a little of his frustration slip into his voice.  "That's what's driving me mad.  I don't have the slightest idea.  Did she say anything to you?"

"She sent her maester.  Creepy fooker that keeps dead things in his basement."

"Qyburn- why would she-" Tyrion cut off, frowning.  He hopped off the bed and started pacing, his mind racing.  "Not only did she do something so incredibly stupid a child could have seen it wouldn't work, she did it through someone else?  But-"  He paced again along the wall, taking another long sip of whiskey.  Bronn stood too, groaning, tugging the wineskin from Tyrion's fingers.

"So she sent her man- that sounds exactly like Cersei, if you ask me.  She has a lot on her mind.  Maybe she just fucked it."

"No, this is too careful.  Too- too calculated-"

"A second ago you said it was stupid-"

"It would have been stupid," Tyrion said slowly, stopping in his tracks so suddenly that Bronn ran into him, spilling liquor down his back.  "Had it been Cersei that sent you." He sank to the stone floor, grinning as the realization finally hit him.  "Qyburn did it on his own."

"Thought he was her man through and through?"

"So did I," Tyrion said.  "Someone else has got to behind it.  The man's not smart enough to put his own shirt on right.  They want us paranoid.  They're trying to set us on edge.  Maybe force us to King's Landing..."  He drifted off again, taking a few more gulps of the burning liquid.  "It's a decent move.  Not a great move, but a decent one.  Interesting.  I wonder who the power is in King's Landing now.  What with Varys gone and Little Finger dead."

"Fuck if I know.  Cersei's a cunt, Euron Grayjoy's an inbred pirate more concerned with getting his dick wet than fighting, and the High Sparrow's dead.  Must be someone new."

"Must be," Tyrion said thoughtfully, tracing the seam on the wineskin. 

"Can I please go back to bed now?" Bronn asked, his eyes bleary.  "Or would you like to ask more stupid fooking questions?"

"You're useless to me anyway, you might as well go back to sleep," he murmured.  Bronn made a rude gesture at him but returned to the nest of blankets he'd made for himself on the floor and shut his eyes.  He was snoring within minutes.  Tyrion stayed up until the sun finally rose, thinking.  Then he gave himself an hour to sleep.  When he woke, he dressed quickly and made his way to the castle wall.

The walls were typically fairly empty this time of day, aside from a stray guard here or there.  So he was surprised to see Sansa, flanked by Brienne and Jaime, standing and looking out across the vast expanse of white.  The day was dark, the sun covered by clouds, but there was no new snow yet.  Tyrion still held on to the hope that there wouldn't be more, at least not today.  There was still nearly four feet surrounding the castle walls, enough that no one but Daenerys and Jon, and their dragons, of course, dared go outside the city walls.  

"Lady Sansa," he said, giving her a nod that could be construed as a bow if she wanted it to be.  She turned, looking unsurprised, a soft smile on her lips.  She really was beautiful, he thought.  The fire in the north, with her red hair pulled back into a simple braid, her blue eyes shining in the early dawn light.  He felt the familiar tug of longing he always did looking at her, and quickly pushed it away.  

"Lord Tyrion.  You're up early."  He shivered, regretting his decision to only come out in one fur.

"Regrettably so."  He glanced at Jaime and gave him a wink, giving Brienne a quick grin.  "You're heavily guarded today.  Expecting crossbow-bearing dwarves to come at you?"

"I'd like to see you try," Sansa said, her grin widening.  Tyrion grinned back.

"Well, m'lady?  What are you doing out here?"

"I've been making Brienne and your brother teach me to fight.  And it got hot inside so we came out here to cool off."  Tyrion raised an eyebrow.  "What, you don't think I can fight?"

"I think, Lady Sansa, that people like you and me fight better with our words than our hands."  He glanced at Jaime, who rolled his eyes.  "Why don't you two go back inside?  Keep each other warm?  There's enough guards out here to keep your lady safe fifty times over."

"And you don't even have your crossbow," Jaime murmured.  Tyrion shot him a look, and his brother tried and failed to hide his grin.  Brienne looked to Sansa, who nodded, then shrugged.

"Alright.  Call if you need anything.  We'll be just inside."  The two walked off, carefully not touching each other.  Tyrion grinned at Sansa, unable to help himself.

"What are the odds they go off to the first closet they find and fuck?"  Sansa snorted, her mask falling away for half a second.  Tyrion's grin broadened.

"What, Brienne?  When she's supposed to be on duty?  I think she'd rather peel back her fingernails one by one."

"Vivid imagery.  They can't keep their hands off each other.  Who would have thought?  The second woman my brother ever loved, and she's big enough to crush him if she wanted to."

"It doesn't surprise me.  Stranger people have loved each other, you know."

"Yes, like your cousin and his aunt."  Sansa's face clouded over, guarded once more.  Tyrion wished, just for a moment, that he could take the words back and see her true smile again.  "You knew," he said instead, realizing the moment the words slipped from his tongue.

"Only a week or so longer than everyone else."

"You didn't tell anyone?" 

"What, and betray my _brother's_ confidence?  If it were Jaime, would you go around telling everyone?"

"No," he said, leaning onto the stone wall.  He could see puffs of his breath, and again he was reminded of just how much he hated the cold.  "He would make a good king, you know.  That brother of yours.  He's got a lot of fight buried under that thick skull of his."

"He and your queen make a fine match," Sansa said, her eyes blazing ice into his.  "You see it too, I'm sure."

"In one stroke, unite the north with the other six kingdoms.  Give Daenerys an army that could defeat Cersei and stand a chance against winter?  Of course I see it.  Would your brother go for it?"

"I can get him to see it," she said softly.  "I don't think he loves her.  Not yet.  But if it's what's best for the kingdom-"

"Self-sacrifice does seem to be his best asset.  I wonder, will the gods bring him back again should he do something else stupid?"  He searched her face, wondering if he could get an emotional reaction, but Sansa merely gave him her usual cool smile. 

"I hope we won't have to find out.  So, what can you give me for the support of the North, the _true_ support, behind your queen?"

"You need to work on your subtlety.  I thought Little Finger-"

"We know each other too well for subtlety, Tyrion."  His name on her lips... he ignored the rush of it, hoping Sansa hadn't seen.  She would use that, if she knew.  Maybe she already did.

"Alright," he said, crossing his arms.  "The North has always mostly governed itself.  You'd be the Warden.  Or- well, whoever you married would- If you marry."

"I'll marry," she said.  For half a second, before she composed herself, she looked sad.  "My people won't follow a woman.  Not all of them. But I'd have that anyway.  What else?"  Tyrion shivered, pulling his fur more tightly around himself.

"You want some sort of assurance that your lands won't be invaded again?" he asked. "Permission to keep an army- a small one?"

"That's a good start," Sansa said.  She met his eyes, her soft smile, the one Tyrion had come to think of as her real one, on her lips.  "Assurance and promises are all very well.  But what about the Wall?  When winter is over, it will have to be rebuilt.  And it's always fallen to the North to mind the wall.  We send the most men there, keep order with the deserters- the rest of the kingdom views it as a punishment.  We need more good men on the wall.  You've seen enough of winter to know that."  Tyrion shuddered.

"If we make it through this winter, you have my word.  The North won't man the wall alone."  Sansa nodded.  "So you're learning to fight- with what?"  Sansa pulled a black dagger from her belt, holding it up for him to see.

"Dragon glass.  Arya gave it to me.  Before the battle."  Tyrion took the dagger, weighing it in his hand and hoping he looked like he knew what he was doing.

"You've got two fine teachers.  Brienne could beat my brother even when he had both his hands, though.  I'd take her advice over his."

"Do you want to learn?" Sansa asked, her face unreadable.

"Me?  Learn how to use a knife for something other than steak?  I'll stick to my crossbow.  But thank you.  What made you decide to learn?"

"When we were in the crypts.  All of us helpless- defenseless- I don't want to feel like that again."  Tyrion had the strangest impulse to reach out and take her hand.  He didn't.  Her lips twisted into a wry grin.  "And I know I'll never be a fighter, not really.  But I'd like to be more than less than useless."

"More than less useless.  I hope that's my legacy when I'm dead."

"I'll spread that around."  They smiled at each other for a moment. Tyrion looked away first.

"I should go-"

"Tyrion-" Sansa said, touching his shoulder.  He paused.  "I never thanked you.  When we were married-"

"You don't have to thank me for not raping you," he said as gently as he could, his hand falling on top of hers.  

"Not that.  You were kind to me.  Truly kind.  You didn't have to be.  You made me laugh when I thought I'd never laugh again.  Thank you."

"You made me laugh too," Tyrion said, his face suddenly hot.  "You're quite clever, you know."

"I've been told," Sansa said.  He could hear the wryness in her voice.  "Break your fast with me?"  He nodded quickly.

"We'll have to invite my brother and his... ser.  If they're done fucking.  I don't think it'll take him more than a few minutes."

"What makes you think it's Ser Jaime doing the fucking?" Sansa asked innocently.  Tyrion's eyebrows shot up, and he looked at her with newfound respect.  

"Where did you learn to talk like that?"

"I'm full of surprises."  He followed her back into the castle, heaving a sigh of relief as the warm air hit his face.  

 

He had come to dread his meetings with Daenerys.  She was restless.  Her men were too, and he couldn't blame them.  Every second they stayed in the north was another second wasted, another second that her Kingdom was in the hands of someone else.  And here Tyrion was, constantly reminding her of the giant ice-spiders and dangers beyond Winterfell.  Of course she would hate him.  

"The longer we let my people stay in Cersei's clutches, the more of them that will die.  We need to beat her before we can defend the North."

"My queen," Tyrion said, looking down at his feet.  "It isn't just the North.  It's the whole of-"

"I _know_ that," Daenerys spat.  "We have to act now while she's weak.  She's getting desperate, sending assassins here, setting her own men alight- we have the Dornish and Yara Grayjoy's fleet.  They're ready to go at a moment's notice.  It's time to go, while winter hasn't come too far.  While the wildlings hold Last Hearth-"

"You'd sacrifice their lives to take your kingdom?"

"I would sacrifice their lives to save my kingdom.  And if we have the armies of King's Landing alongside our own, we have a better chance.  I'm tired of this fight.  Varys?"

"Yes, your grace?" Varys asked, shooting a side-long glance at Tyrion.  

"Tell the Dornish to march.  We'll launch an all-out attack on King's landing within the month.  Together.  Then we'll return and fight here."

"Your grace, this is a mistake," Tyrion started, but she was already striding away, her head upturned and proud.  

"She could be right," Varys offered, studying his fingernails.  "Aside from the occasional spider, things have been quiet here.  And Cersei will recover her strength before long."

"I know," Tyrion said, rubbing his forehead hard enough to leave red marks.  "I just have a feeling that she'd be walking into a trap.  Or leaving the North to fall into a trap.  Cersei- she didn't send Bronn, Varys.  I know she didn't.  And I can't for the life of me figure out who would.  Or why."

"Tyrion, I think we have to stop being so indecisive.  We commit to a decision and we take the chance.  Otherwise, Cersei and the undead will kill us all."  Varys's normally clear eyes seemed clouded, and his brow was so furrowed ants could have lived in it.  "If we have the men of the south with us, if we make one stand together- assuming that there even are more of the undead coming for us.  We'd have a better chance."  Tyrion sighed, collapsing into the seat beside the Spider.

"It seems everyone but me agrees.  Which would tend to mean I'm wrong."

"Time will tell."  Varys said, giving him a wry grin.  "Or we'll all be dead and it won't matter."

"Jon Snow won't go.  Not with those spiders still showing up.  We don't have enough dragon glass or Valyerian steel-"

"He won't.  And he's right not to.  One of them should stay. She can take King's Landing without him.  The North is his."

"Fine," Tyrion said.  He took in a deep breath.  "Gods, Varys, it was one thing when we were dealing with mortals, but we throw on top monsters?  Dragons?  We can read all the historical accounts, all the legends we can get our hands on, but how do we prepare a strategy with dragons?  With giants?  With the undead?  This goes beyond- well, everything.  I don't even know where to begin."

"No one does, Tyrion.  You know more about dragons than anyone, except maybe Daenerys, in the seven kingdoms.  She'll need you in planning for this.  Are you in?"  Tyrion sighed warily, taking a long drink from the wineskin at his waist.  He shook it, finding it empty already.  

"Of course.  I trust your judgment.  And the queen's.  We go against Cersei directly, and gods help us."

"Gods help us indeed," Varys said.  They sat in silence for a long moment, avoiding each others' gaze.  Tyrion longed for more wine, longed to dull the creeping sense of dread he couldn't seem to shake.  Instead, he just sat, sat beside Varys like he was waiting for the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Brienne! Thank you all for sticking with me this far!


	16. Brienne

Brienne

Jaime warmed her bed every night now.  She was beginning to forget what it had been like to sleep without him.  That terrified her.  It excited her.  Mostly, it just confused her.  She knew what to do if she was surrounded by enemies on horseback.  She could probably muddle her way out of back-alley knife fight with five or fewer men.  She could rescue high-born ladies and fight alongside the best knights in the kingdom, but when it came to... whatever it was she had with Jaime, Brienne was lost.  At first, she'd just pulled away whenever she felt lost or uncertain, but now- well.  Now Jaime pulled her back.  He was finding her out.  And it was harder and harder to pull away.  Really, it was easiest just to fall back into his arms, to hear his hear beat in time with hers, steady.

She lay beside him now, his head on her chest, her arms around him.  And she wondered what she would do when he finally left.  Because of course he would.  Even if he didn't want to, they were both fighters.  One of them was bound to die sooner rather than later, and with her bad luck it would be Jaime.  More likely he'd find someone younger, smaller, prettier.  And the closer she got to him now, the worse it would hurt.  And yet here she was.  Unable to tear herself away.  A smile tearing her lips apart.  She tapped at his shoulder half-heartedly.

"We have to get up," she murmured, a hand running absently through his graying hair.  "Lady Sansa will need us."

"Fuck 'er," Jaime muttered back, nuzzling deeper into her bosom.  "She won't care."  

"Maybe not, but I do."  Jaime groaned, clinging to her dramatically.

"Stay.  It's warm.  It's fucking cold out there."

"Complain when it's too hot, complain when it's too cold," Brienne said, unable to keep the grin off her face.  

"Fuck off," he grumbled.  "Don't go."

" _Me_ go? I'm not on duty this morning, Lannister, you are.  Now get your lazy arse up before I stick a sword in it."

"We haven't tried that before," Jaime said, rolling nimbly away to avoid her half-hearted punch.  "I'm up, I'm up.  Gods, woman."  

He scowled at her, throwing his clothes on so haphazardly that she stood, shaking her head as she laced up his shirt.  His arms wrapped around her shoulders, hands clasping behind her neck, tugging her close.  She met his gaze, rolling her eyes as he pressed his lips into hers.  Still, she kissed him back for a long moment, unable to help herself.

"You're incorrigible," she said, trying to detangle herself.  He looked up at her, eyes wide and innocent.

"I love it when you use big words.  Makes me want you to stick your sword in my-"

"Very funny," she said, lacing his shirt up so tightly he yelped.  "Go on, then, armor too."

"I need to get another squire," he grumbled.  "You're mean."

"You can have Pod.  Boy thinks he's a knight now."

"We really should knight him at some point," Jaime said.  He pulled her forward, placing a single kiss on her cheek before letting her go and turning away.  She rubbed at the spot, feeling her face burn red.  She stumbled back to the bed, watching as Jaime struggled with his armor.  Stark armor, complete with the sigil of the dire wolfs on the breastplate.  It was strange to see him out of his gold.  He moved over to her, and she helped him with what he couldn't reach.  When she finished, he turned, wearing his mock-scowl, the one that had only started appearing since they'd started sleeping together.  _Her_ scowl, Brienne had come to think of it as.

"If you don't come find me in an hour, I'll be deeply unhappy," he said.

"And what makes you think I care about your happiness?"  

Jaime grinned, his face suddenly looking ten years younger.  "You're still here, aren't you?"

 

Daenerys and her soldiers were busy, roaming about the halls with more vigor than usual.  Brienne exchanged few glances with the other guards, but none of them mentioned it.  If it was something they needed to know about, they'd be told about it.  She did notice, however, that Sansa seemed to smile more, a curious glint in her eye every time a Targaryen soldier hurried past.  She ate her meals with Sansa and Jaime as she'd grown used to doing, watching fondly as Jaime tried his best to watch his mouth around Sansa.  Then, when the next guards were securely in place, Jaime grabbed her hand and tugged her away.  She laughed breathlessly as he rounded a corridor and up a flight of stairs.

"Where do you think you're taking me?" she asked.  Jaime didn't stop.  She shrugged and followed.  Finally they paused in a simple room, one with old swords and broken-down shields on the walls.  "What is this place?"

"Old armory, I think."  Jaime let go of her hand and started pacing.  She watched, confused.  "I found it when I first came to Winterfell.  No one comes here."  She waited, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.  "You know, this place is as bad as King's Landing with gossip.  Worse, because it pretends not to be.  I mean- fucking northerners.  They're all screwing each other and stabbing each other same as the rest of us.  And somehow they think-"

"You're rambling," she noted, unable to hide her grin.  "What are you so nervous about?"

"I- Gods."  He paused, running his good hand through his hair.  Finally, he turned to look at her.  "Marry me."  She snorted.

"You're joking."  Of course he was joking.  But his face was deadly serious.  She sobered quickly.  "Oh, you've just gone mad."

"I'm not mad."

"Jaime, you think just because you've deflowered me you have to make me your wife.  I'm not some helpless damsel who needs you to make me an honest woman."

"I fucking know that," he muttered.  "I- since I've known you, I-"  He paused, looking up at the ceiling.  Brienne waited.  "Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Say what?"  

"I love you," he said.  Brienne's heart stopped.  She waited for the punchline.  It didn't come.  He glanced at the wall, face bright red. She waited, but he didn't say any more.

"Jaime-"

"I love you, Brienne.  And I want you by my side until this is over.  No matter the end."  Brienne took in a few even breaths, a trick she'd learned long ago, back when she was first training to fight.  A trick to keep her head clear and calm in situations like this.

"You can't mean to-"

"I mean it."  He picked at the wall with his fingernail, not meeting her gaze.  

"I won't have your children."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I'm no lady."

"I wouldn't love you if you were."  She scrutinized him, still a part of her waiting for laughter.  But Jaime... he wasn't ashamed.  He was embarrassed, but not of her.  Embarrassed to admit he loved anyone.  She walked to him, her hand reaching toward his.  She paused before it could reach.  It was easier to stay a few inches apart for this.  Easier to find the courage.

"Alright."  He didn't speak.  They didn't need to speak.  He just gave her a small smile.  She met his eyes, a smile of her own slowly growing.  They stayed in the old weapons room for a long few minutes.  Then they made their way back to Brienne's chambers together and shed their clothes, finally touching.

 

Brienne awoke to the sound of shouts and metal clanging outside her door.  She grabbed her sword, threw on a shirt, and barreled into the hall.  Jaime followed hot on her heels.  They ran to the parapets, and it seemed like half the castle followed.  The battlements were a buzz of activity, archers running about and knotching arrows to their bows, seemingly unsure of where to aim them.  Greyworm waved her over, his eyes blazing.

"Spiders.  On the walls," he yelled.  Brienne didn't stop to look.  She ran back into the castle, finding the oil casks that waited within.  She rolled one back onto the battlements, hoisting it up with the help of Jaime.  They balanced it precariously, waiting as three of the beasts approached.  

"Now," Brienne yelled, throwing the barrel with all of her might.  Archer shot flaming arrows at the cask, which exploded, killing one of the things and scorching the other two.  They smoked as they scurried backward, making strange, nearly silent hisses.  The oil clung to their bodies, though, still burning, blackening wherever it touched.  Another arrow hit the one on the left, and it shattered.  Shards of ice flew up from the ground, burying themselves in the snow and disappearing.   

All across the ground, spiders writhed as they exploded into ice.  There were more of them this time.  Nearly twice the number as last time they'd come.  Still, it only took another half an hour before they were all reduced to ice.  

"This is the third time," a voice behind her said wearily.  She turned to find Tyrion and Greyworm behind her.  "The third time in fewer months.  More every time."

"And we will continue to fight," Grayworm said, his mouth pressed into a thin line.  Tyrion let out a mirthless chuckle.

" _They_ will continue to fight. And we leave them to-"

"Hush," Grayworm said, scowling at Brienne.  Tyrion followed his gaze, his eyes meeting Brienne's.  He gave her a small nod, then stalked inside after Grayworm, his hands clenched at his sides.  Brienne watched them go, heart still beating hard.  She exchanged a glance with Jaime, who shrugged, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he ran off to talk to some of the soldiers .  Brienne set off in the other direction, her breath leading the way as she headed to search for Lady Sansa. 


	17. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for Tyrion's joke goes to this clever person https://www.reddit.com/r/gameofthrones/comments/6l85om/everythingtyrions_honeycomb_and_jackass_joke/

Jaime

The ceremony was small.  Just Jaime, Brienne, the Queen, and two witnesses each.  Podrick and Lady Sansa for Brienne, and Tyrion and Bronn for Jaime.  They dressed in fur and stood beneath the weirwood tree, letting some part of the north in like that would save them from winter.  It wouldn't, Jaime knew.  Still, he felt warm beneath his fur, despite the freezing air and foot of snow they stood in.  Neither of them, he supposed, were much for tradition.  He didn't clothe Brienne in his cloak, nor follow most of the vows the Faith of the Seven.  Brienne didn't wear a dress beneath her many furs.  They didn't hold to the words of northern weddings either.  And with the Queen presiding, it could hardly be said to be a religious affair.  But with Brienne standing across from him, her nose and cheeks pink with the cold and her eyes shining brightly, it was the most perfect ceremony he could have asked for.

"I vow to fight at your side and give my life for yours," Jaime had said.  Brienne repeated it.  

"I vow to keep a fire going in our room every night," Brienne said, giving him a secret grin.  He smiled back, feeling something warm in his chest.  That was one oath he wouldn't repeat

"I vow to defend you for as long as I'm alive." Brienne repeated it.  "I vow to always listen to you before doing something stupid.  Although I don't promise not to do something stupid."  Tyrion and Bronn snorted at that.

"I vow to love you," Brienne said.  Jaime felt his heart swell.  She hadn't said that before.  And even now, even with their wedding underway, she looked shy.  And almost afraid.  As if he'd run now that he knew she loved him.  Instead, he squeezed her hands tightly and looked into her eyes.

"I vow to always love you," he said softly, watching the fear melt away from her face.  Daenerys smiled and continued with her speech, but Jaime felt himself drifting.  Speeches didn't matter.  Not when Brienne was his, not for a night, not only in his bed but really and truly his.  When the queen finished, Brienne tugged him forward, pressing her lips to his for a long moment.

"If they start fucking right here, I'm out," Bronn said.  To Jaime's surprise, Sansa giggled right along with Tyrion.  Brienne's lips pulled into a smile around his and he pulled back.  Daenerys smiled at them, looking for just a moment as though she wished she could join in the laughter.  Then she straightened, her magnanimous mask slipping back into place.  

"I wish you both all the happiness in the world," she said formally.  Jaime nodded at her awkwardly.  He wasn't sure what to say.  Brienne gave her a stiff bow.

"Thank you, your grace," she said, her voice colder than Jaime was used to hearing it.  Daenerys nodded, looking uncomfortable.  Brienne turned away from the queen, grabbing Jaime's hand and pulling him into the castle.  He followed.

 

They spent the night drinking, the six of them.  Daenerys disappeared once they reentered the castle, and the mood lightened.  Bronn cracked his typical jokes, and Tyrion and Jaime laughed dutifully, sharing wine and liquor as Podrick and Brienne pretended not to be amused.  Brienne's cheeks were still flushed pink, though, and a grin lingered in the corners of her lips.  She looked very happy, he realized with a smile of his own.  Sansa Stark smiled, quiet beside Brienne.  Jaime felt another rush of respect for the girl.  She was as at home with Brienne as she was ordering the reconstruction of Winterfell.  Somehow the picture of grace even as she grinned at Bronn's filthy words.  

"I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel," Tyrion began.  Bronn and Jaime rolled their eyes at each other.

"Not this again."

"I've never heard the ending," Sansa said, sitting up straighter.  

"Gods- Tyrion if I hear this joke one more time-"

"Go on," Brienne said, hitting Jaime playfully on the arm.  "I want to hear it, and it's my wedding night."

"And it's not mine?" he asked.  Still, he leaned against Brienne and put his feet up on the chair in front of him.

"As I was saying," Tyrion continued, his eyes sparkling at Jaime.  "I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel.  The madame- a great fat woman with a painted face and a mole on her chin-"

"A _mole_? Could you be more banal?" Jaime asked.  Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"Where did you learn that word?"

"Come on, Tyrion, tell your joke," Sansa said, throwing her loose red hair over her shoulder.  Tyrion cleared his throat, giving them all a mocking glare.

"She asks me, "What can I do for you?"  And I replied-"

"'This is a brothel.  The fook do you think you can do for me?'" Bronn interrupted.  Tyrion waited until the room quieted again. 

"I said, 'I need a woman to lay with for mine has left me.'  She looked me up and down, her mole trembling, a great long black hair in the middle of it shaking back and forth-" he grinned at Jaime, all teeth- "and asked, 'My lord, why is that?  And why do you have a donkey and honey?'  'My woman found a genie in a bottle, and he granted her three wishes. The first was for a house fit for a queen, so he gave her this honeycomb. The second wish was that she have the nicest arse in all the land, so he gave her this cursed donkey..." Tyrion paused, waiting for someone to ask the question.  Brienne leaned forward, her eyes shining.

"Go on, what was the third wish?" she asked.

"'Well... she asked the genie to make my cock hang down past my knee,'" Tyrion said, his eyes glinting.  "'That's not so bad,' the madame replied.  'Not so bad? I used to be six foot three!'"  The room erupted into laughter, Sansa laughing so hard her whole face turned red.  Jaime laughed right along, despite the fact that he'd heard the joke a hundred times, mostly because Brienne's breathless laugh was so contagious he couldn't help it.  

"Telling jokes like that in front of Podrick- no wonder he was so useless when I got him."

"Not so useless in the whore-house, way I've heard," Bronn replied, nudging the squire.  "Sent him back with his money.  All of it."

"You still never told me what you did," Tyrion said accusingly.  Podrick just smiled, the same endearing embarrassed smile he always wore.  

"Maybe he's the one with the cock that hangs to his knees," Bronn muttered, taking another long swig from his glass.  

"We need to knight you, Pod," Tyrion said.  Brienne nodded thoughtfully.  

"After all, with a trick like that, you deserve it."  

"I'm happy where I am," Podrick murmured, but there was a gleam in his eye, and why shouldn't there be?  Many boys grew up wanting nothing more than to be knights, fighting in tournaments, rescuing damsels... But Pod had seen the other side too, the side with bloody chaos, shit, and bile.  He deserved it more than most.

"Tomorrow," Tyrion promised, swaying.  "When I can stand straight.  Let's get the happy couple off to bed."

"If any of you try to undress me on the way to my chambers, I'll stick a sword through your eye," Brienne said, her tone half-serious.

"Shame I'll lose an eye on my wedding night," Jaime said wryly, tugging at her shirt playfully.  She rolled her eyes.  Together they stumbled to bed.  Jaime, at least for the moment, kept his eyes.  

They made love hap-hazard and half-asleep, moving together in their familiar patterns until they both cried out and fell limp in each others' arms.  It was rushed and harried.  And yet it was everything.  Jaime fell asleep beside her smiling.  

 

In the morning, he patrolled around the outside of Winterfell.  It wasn't part of his duties, of course.  There were scouts on the wall keeping careful eyes out for spiders or intruders these days, but it made Jaime more comfortable to be on the ground, to see for himself that the grounds were clear.  And he liked to be outside on the days where the sun shone through, and the clouds were a little lighter.  Days when snow didn't fall.  They were growing more and more rare.  The morning was cold and still, and he felt he could see for miles.  The snow crunched beneath his feet, but the hard upper layer didn't cave, and he walked atop it easily.  He saw Bran Stark coming, tied to a horse, minutes before the man reached him, and raised a hand in greeting.

"That looks like my brother's," Jaime said, gesturing at the saddle.  Bran gave him an unreadable glance.

"It's Lord Tyrion's design.  One of the best I've seen."  Jaime nodded, wondering when the boy would have had the chance to see other cripple saddles.

"What are you doing out here so early?"

"I wanted to talk to you."  Jaime nodded, trying to hide his discomfort.  "They're coming back."

"The spiders again?" Jaime asked.  Bran had given them warning the few times there had been more than ten spiders.  The strange boy saw things, Jaime knew.  How much he saw or how he saw it, though... that was a mystery.

"Worse.  You'll be a part of it.  How much of a part is up to you."  Bran stared at him so long that Jaime had to look away, unnerved.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you will have a choice to make.  Not yet."

"When?" he asked, unable to help himself.  

"You'll know," Bran said simply.  "There are three paths for you.  And I can't tell you which one is best because I don't know.  But if you choose to go- once you've done what you've came for, leave by land.  Avoid the Kraken in the halls."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said, forcing up a facsimile of the charming smile he used to use to excuse himself when he didn't know something.  Now he was too worn and old for it to have the same effect.  Not that it would matter to Bran anyway. He smiled at Jaime in a way that was both soul-searching and entirely empty at once.  

"You will understand when the time comes.  You _will_  have a part in the Great War, Ser Jaime.  I can only hope it will be a long one."  The boy didn't say goodbye.  He just rode off, peaceful and empty.  If Jaime didn't feel so gods damned guilty every time he looked at Bran, he would find it creepy.  He didn't, of course.  He created whatever it was the boy was now.  And so he wouldn't be unnerved.  

Jaime continued his silent walk around the castle, trekking over the snow alone.  No one else came to bother him.  He mulled over the foggy words Bran had given him and decided to write them down.  Maybe Brienne or Tyrion would be able to decipher them.  Maybe he would be able to find his destiny before it found him.  When the cold finally slipped through the furs and began hitting his skin, Jaime retreated back into the castle.  He shed his clothes and lay beside his wife, pulling her warm body to his.  Brienne shuffled in her sleep, moving closer to him, letting him wrap her body close to him, sighing in apparent happiness. He fell back to sleep, her hard body beside him, short blond hairs tickling his nose.  He fell asleep with a smile on his face, his cock hard and ready for the next time he would need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are liking this so far! Next is Daenerys, then Cersei!


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